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Tetherstones 


By 

Ethel M. Dell 

Author of “ The Way of an Eagle,” “ Charles Rex,” etc. 


G. P. Putnam’s S ons 

ISlewYork. & London 

ttlje Unickerbocker Press 

1923 



Copyright, 1923 
by 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons • 




Made in the United States of America 

©Cl A 7 5 9341 



4 - 


DC 


r T 


' I 


! 


I Dedicate This Book 

TO VIOLET 


The Dear Friend Who Always Stands By 
As A Token of 
My Ever-Loving Gratitude 
For All She Has Done For Me 




The lonely circle on the hill 
Where mist-wreaths float and rise 
Hither and thither, lingering still, 

Like smoke of sacrifice— 

Forgotten fires, forgotten rites, 

Forgotten agonies. 

The heaven-blue flowers bloom below 
About the grim stone’s foot, 

The sweet hare-bells that always grow 
Where nought else e’er takes root. 

Of all that stony wilderness, 

The only fruit. 

A presence in the moonlit night 
Unseen doth ever brood, 

As- though it kept in silent sight 
The stones rough-hewn and rude; 

The shrine of which it was the god,— 

The moorland solitude. 

And never shall that vigil tire, 

And never the great spell pass, 

Where the Druids built their altar-fire 
Over the dew-drenched grass, 

Till the last loud trump shall shatter 
The gates of brass. 

And then forgotten priests shall wake 
And forgotten victims rise, 

And the old grey stones of the circle shake 
In the place of sacrifice. . 

But the heaven-blue flowers will bloom for aye 
As flowers of Paradise. 


T 









♦ 










CONTENTS 


PART I 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I.—The Machine. 3 

II. —The Breakdown. 13 

III. —A Business Proposition.21 

IV. —The Accuser.35 

V. —The Holiday.41 

VI. —The Capture. 50 

VII. —Roger. 57 

VIII. —The Road to Nowhere ........ 64 

IX. —The Lions’ Den .. 72 


PART II 


I.—The Strangers .....<> o ... . 79 

II. —Roger’s Master .......... 90 

III. — The Beast .98 

IV. —Rebels. 106 

vii 















Contents 


PAGE 


viii 

CHAPTER 

V.—Mr. Dermot.116 

VI.—Maggie.123 

VII.—The Path Through the Wilderness . . 134 

VIII.—The Stones.142 

IX.—The Letter.150 

X.—Revelation.160 

XI.—Failure.167 

XII.—The Fires of Hell.174 

XIII.—Escape.179 

PART III 

I.—The Victim.187 

II.—The Bargain.194 

III. —The Turn of the Tide.203 

IV. —Ruth. 211 

V.—The Exile.220 

VI.—The Chain.232 

VII.—The Message.239 

VIII.—The Miracle.246 

IX.—The Invalid.253 

X.—The Woman’s Right.262 




















Contents ix 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XI. —The Perfect Gift.272 

XII. —The Parting.277 

PART IV 

I. —The Land of Exile. 285 

II. —The Nightmare. 294 

III. —The Awakening. 306 

IV. —The Victory. 315 

V.—The Vision.„ . 324 

VI. —The Inquisitor. 332 

VII. —Fair Play. 342 

VIII. —The Place of Sacrifice. 353 

IX. —Where the Giant Hare-bells Grow . . 364 














TETHERSTONES 




TETHERSTONES 


PART I 

CHAPTER I 

THE MACHINE 

Twelve deep notes sounded from the clock-tower of 
the Cathedral, and the Bishop’s secretary dropped her 
hands from her typewriter and turned her face to the open 
window with a quick sigh. The Bishop’s garden lay 
sleeping in the sunshine—the pure white of lilies and 
royal blue of delphiniums mingling together as the 
wrought silks on the fringe of an altar-cloth. The age- 
worn stone of the Cathedral rose beyond it, and the arch 
of the cloisters gave a glimpse of the quiet burial-ground 
within. A great cluster of purple stone-crop rioted over 
one corner of the arch, and the secretary’s tired eyes 
rested upon it with a touch of wistfulness as though the 
splendour of it were somewhat overwhelming. She her¬ 
self was so slight, so insignificant, so altogether negligible 
a quality, a being wholly out of place in the midst of 
such glorious surroundings. But yet she loved them, 
and her happiest hours were those she spent with her 
little sketching-block in various comers of that wonder¬ 
ful garden. It was only that the purple flower seemed 
somehow to be the symbol to her of all that was out of 

3 


4 Tetherstones 

reach. Her youth was slipping from her, and she had 
never lived. 

The tired lines about the brown eyes were growing 
daily more marked. The little tender curve about the 
lips was becoming a droop. The brown hair that grew 
so softly about her forehead gleamed unexpectedly white 
Jiere and there. 

“Yes, I’m getting old,” said Frances Thorold. “Old 
and tired and dull.” She stretched up her arms with a 
sudden movement, and for a second her hands were 
clenched. Then they fell to her sides. 

“I suppose we are all slaves,” she said, “of one kind or 
another. But only the rebels know it.” 

She turned again to her work, and for a space only 
the sharp click of the machine disturbed the summer 
silence. It had an unmistakably indignant sound as 
though its manipulator were out of sympathy with the 
words so deftly printed on the white page. The secre¬ 
tary’s mouth became very firm as she proceeded, the 
brown eyes narrowed and grew hard. 

Suddenly she uttered an impatient exclamation and 
looked up. “Oh, these platitudes!” she said. “How are 
they going to help men and women to live ?” 

For a moment she had almost a desperate look, and 
then abruptly she laughed. 

“Perhaps it isn’t all your fault,” she said to the manu¬ 
script by her side, “that you give us stones for bread. 
You have lived on them all your life and don’t know the 
difference.” 

“How do you know ?” said a voice at the window. 

The secretary gave a start. Her eyes met the eyes of a 
man who stood against the clematis-covered window- 
frame looking in upon her—a careless, lounging figure as 
supremely at ease as a cat stretched in the sunshine. 


The Machine 5 

He marked her brief confusion with a smile. “Do tell 
me how you know !” he said. 

Her eyes fenced with his for a moment, then were 
proudly lowered. It was as if she drew a veil over her 
face. 

“His lordship is not here/’ she remarked in a tone that 
was strictly official. 

“So I have already observed,” rejoined the new-comer, 
with his easy tolerance that was somehow quite distinct 
from familiarity. “In fact, at the present moment, I 
believe his lordship is in the thick of an argument with 
the Dean as to whether Shakespeare or Bacon wrote the 
Bible. It’s rather an important point, you know. Have 
you any theories on the subject, might one ask?” 

A little quiver that could hardly be described as a smile 
passed over the secretary’s thin features, but her eyes 
remained upon her work. 

“I don’t go in for theories,” she said, “or arguments. 
I am far too busy.” 

“By Jove!” he commented. “How you hate it!” 

She raised her brows very slightly,—delicate brows, 
one of them a shade more tilted than the other, giving a 
quaint look of humour to a face that seldom smiled. 

“I hate nothing,” she said with precision, “I have no 
time.” 

“By Jove!” he said again, and chuckled as at some 
hidden joke. 

The exasperating click of the typewriter put an end 
to all discussion, but it did not dislodge the intruder as 
was obviously intended. He merely propped himself 
against the grey stone-work of the window and took out 
his cigarette-case. His eyes dwelt with artistic apprecia¬ 
tion upon the stately glories of the old garden, the arch 
of the cloisters against the summer blue, the wealth of 


6 


Tetherstones 


purple flower adorning it. His face had the lines and 
the weather-tan of the man who has travelled far and 
wide, has looked upon the wonders of life and death 
with a certain cynical amusement, and returned almost to 
the starting-point with very little of value in his pack. 

As the click of the typewriter persisted, he turned from 
his deliberate survey and gave his attention to a calm 
study of the woman seated behind it. His gaze was 
speculative, faintly humorous. There was something in 
that face of passive severity that aroused his curiosity. 
An insignificant type, it was true; but behind the insig¬ 
nificance there lurked something unusual that drew his 
interest. He wondered how long she would manage to 
ignore him. 

On and on clicked the typewriter. The typist’s lips were 
firmly closed, her eyes resolutely fixed upon her work. 
The watcher summoned his own resolution to wait upon 
opportunity, meditatively smoking the while. 

Opportunity came at the end of some minutes of per¬ 
sistent clicking that might well have exasperated the most 
patient. The end of the page was reached, and there 
came a check. The secretary reached a thin, nervous 
hand for another sheet. 

“Still more platitudes?” queried the man who leaned 
against the window-frame. 

It would not have greatly surprised him had she made 
no response, but the sudden flashing upwards of her 
eyes came as a revelation. He straightened himself, al¬ 
most as if he expected a blow. 

“I am sorry,” said the secretary very evenly, her eyes 
unswervingly upon him, “but you are disturbing me. I 
must ask you to go away.” 

He stood looking at her in frank astonishment. No 
woman had ever made him so simple and so compelling a 


♦ 


The Machine 


7 


request before. This from the secretary, the insignificant 
adjunct, the wholly undesirable and unknown etcetera of 
his uncle’s household! There certainly was more here 
than met the eye! 

He collected himself with an unwonted feeling of being 
at a disadvantage and instantly determined to save the 
situation at all costs. He leaned towards her, meeting the 
grave insistence of her look with a disarming smile. 
‘‘Miss—Thorold, I haven’t offended you?” 

“No,” said Frances Thorold briefly. “I am busy, 
that’s all.” 

Her tone was official rather than ungracious, her eyes 
questioning rather than hostile, her whole attitude too 
impersonal for resentment. And yet it aroused resent¬ 
ment in the man. His smile vanished. 

“I am sorry,” he said stiffly, “to have appeared intru¬ 
sive. That was not my intention. I only spoke to you 
because I heard your voice and imagined the hour for 
recreation had arrived. Pray accept my apologies!” 

The firm lips relaxed a little, and a short sigh came 
through them. “There is no need for apology,” she said. 
“No one apologizes to—a machine. But it has got to 
keep working, and it mustn’t be interrupted.” 

“You can’t work all day!” he protested. 

She nodded. “I can. I do. And why not? It’s what 
I’m here for.” 

Her voice had a note of challenge. Her eyes had gone 
beyond him. They rested upon the wealth of purple flower 
that crowned the coping of the cloister-arch in the hot 
sunshine, and again they held that wistful look as of 
baffled longing for the unattainable. 

The man’s eyes were upon her. They saw the longing. 
His anger passed. 

“No machine will go for ever,” he said, “if left to 


8 


Tether stones 


itself. The very best of them need occasional rest for 
adjustment and lubrication. Otherwise they run down 
and.wear out before their time/’ 

He was aware of the gleam of appreciation that crossed 
her intent face, and for the first time he marked the 
wary lines about her eyes. Then he met them again, and 
knew that he had scored a point. 

She spoke in her brisk, official voice, returning to her 
work. ‘‘No doubt you are right. I shall have to oil it 
one of these days—when I have time.” 

“I shouldn’t leave it too long,” he said. “Take an 
engineer’s advice! It’s poor economy—may lead to a 
break-down in the end.” 

She adjusted the fresh page with deft care. “Thank 
you Mr. Rotherby. I shall remember your advice.” 

“And take it?” suggested Rotherby. Then, as she did 
not reply, “It may be dry bread, but it’s better than stones, 
anyway.” 

He got what he angled for. She threw him a fleeting 
smile, and in a moment he caught the charm which up 
till then had eluded him. 

It faded almost instantly as a picture fades from a 
screen. Only the official mask remained. Yet as he 
turned to depart, the gleam of satisfaction lingered in 
his eyes. He had made his small bid for amusement, 
and he had not bid in vain. 

The monotonous clicking of the typewriter continued 
through the summer silence as the secretary pursued her 
task with erect head and compressed lips. With ma¬ 
chine-like precision she tapped out the long, learned sen¬ 
tences, reading them mechanically, transmitting them with 
well-trained accuracy, aloof, uncritical, uninterested. 
She did not lift her eyes from her work again for a full 
hour. 


The Machine 


9 


Page after page was covered and laid aside. The 
Cathedral clock chimed and struck again. Then, in a 
quarter of an hour, there came the booming of a heavy 
gong through the house. Frances Thor old finished her 
sentence and ceased to work. 

Her hands fell upon her lap, and for the moment her 
whole frame relaxed. She sat inert, as one utterly ex¬ 
hausted, her eyes closed, her head bowed. 

Then, very sharply, as though at a word of rebuke, 
she straightened herself and began to set in order the 
fruits of her morning’s work. She had laboured for five 
hours without a break, save for the brief interlude of 
Montague Rotherby’s interruption. 

At the opening of the door she rose to her feet, but 
continued her task without turning. The Bishop of 
Burminster had a well-known objection to any forms of 
deference from inferiors. He expressed it now as he 
came forward to the table at which she had worked for 
so long. 

“Why do you rise, Miss Thorold? Pray continue your 
task. You waste time by these observances.” 

She straightened the last page and made quiet reply. 
“I think I have finished my task for this morning, my 
lord. In any case it is luncheon-time.” 

“You have finished?” He took up the pile of type¬ 
script with eagerness, but in a moment tossed it down 
again with exasperation. “You call that finished!” 

“For this morning,” repeated Frances Thorold, in her 
quiet, unmoved voice. “It is a lengthy, and a difficult, 
piece of work. But I hope to finish it to-night.” 

“It must be finished to-night,” said the Bishop with de¬ 
cision. “It is essential that it should be handed to me 
for revision by nine o’clock. Kindly make a note of this, 
Miss Thorold! I must say I am disappointed by your rate 


IO 


Tethers tones 


of progress. I had hoped that work so purely mechani¬ 
cal would have taken far less time.” 

He spoke with curt impatience, but no shade of feeling 
showed upon his secretary’s face. She said nothing 
whatever in reply. 

The Bishop, lean, ascetic, forbidding of aspect, pulled 
at his clean-shaven chin with an irritable gesture. He 
had a bundle of letters in his hand which he slapped down 
upon the table before her. 

“I had hoped for better things,” he said. “There are 
these to be answered, and when is time to be found for 
them if your whole day is to be occupied in the typing 
of my treatise—a very simple piece of work, mere, rough 
copy, after all, which will have to be done again from 
beginning to end after my revision?” 

“I will take your notes upon those this afternoon,” said 
Frances. “I will have them ready for your signature in 
time to catch the midnight post.” 

“Absurd!” said the Bishop. “They must go before 
then.” 

She heard him without dismay. “Then I will do them 
first, and type the rest of the treatise afterwards,” she 
said. 

He made a sound of impatience. “A highly unsatis¬ 
factory method of procedure! I am afraid I cannot com¬ 
pliment you upon the business-like way in which you exe¬ 
cute your duties.” 

He did not expect a reply to this, but as if out of space 
it came. 

“Yet I execute them,” said Frances Thorold steadily 
and respectfully. 

He looked at her sharply, his cold grey eyes drawn 
to keen attention. “With very indifferent success,” he 
commented. “Pray remember that, Miss Thorold, should 


The Machine 


IX 


the position you occupy ever tempt you to feel uplifted!” 

She made no answer, and her face of utter passivity 
revealed nothing to his unsparing scrutiny. He passed the 
matter by as unworthy of further consideration. If any 
impertinence had been intended, he had quelled it at the 
outset. He did not ask for deference from his subordi¬ 
nates, but he demanded—and he obtained—implicit 
submission. He had a gift for exacting this, regarding 
everyone whom he employed as a mere puppet made to 
respond to the pulling of a string. If at any time the 
puppet failed to respond, it was thrown aside immediately 
as worthless. He was a man who had but one aim and 
object in life, and this he followed with untiring and 
wholly ruthless persistence. Before all things he desired 
and so far as his powers permitted he meant to achieve, 
the establishment of the Church as a paramount and en¬ 
during force above all other forces. With the fervour 
and the self-abnegation of a Jesuit, he followed unswerv¬ 
ingly this one great idea, trampling down all lesser things, 
serving only the one imperative need. It was his idol, 
his fetish—this dream of power, and he worshipped it 
blindly, not realising that the temple he sought to erect 
was already dedicated to personal ambition rather than 
to the glory of God. 

He worked unceasingly, with crude, fanatical endeavour 
—a man born out of his generation, belonging to a sterner 
age, and curiously at variance with the world in which 
he lived. 

To him Frances Thor old was only a small cog-wheel 
of that machine which he was striving to drive for the 
accomplishment of his ends. The failure of such a minute 
portion of mechanism was of small importance to him. 
She had her uses, undoubtedly, but she could be replaced 
at almost any moment. She suited his purpose perhaps 


12 


Tetherstones 


a shade better than most, but another could be very quickly 
fitted to the same end. He was an adept at moulding 
and bending the various portions of his machine to his 
will. Not one of them ever withstood him for long. 

The rosy-faced Dean, with his funny Shakespearean 
hobby-horse, was as putty in his hands, and it never 
struck him that that same pink-cheeked curiosity was a 
tool infinitely more fit for the Master’s use than he him¬ 
self could ever be. Neither did he ever dream of the 
fiery scorn that burned so deeply in his secretary’s silent 
soul as she bent herself to the burden he daily laid upon 
her. It would not have interested him had he known. 
The welfare of the dogs under the table had never been 
any concern of the Bishop of Burminster. They were 
lucky to eat of the crumbs. 

And so he passed her by as unworthy of notice, merely 
glancing through her script and curtly noting a fault 
here and there, finally tossing the pages down and turn¬ 
ing from her with a brief, “You will lunch with me, but 
pray be as speedy as possible and return to your work 
as soon as you have finished!” 

That was his method of exacting the utmost from her. 
Under those hard grey eyes she would spend no more 
than the allotted half-hour out of the office-chair. 

And the sun still shone upon that garden of dreams, 
while the bees hummed lazily among the blue and purple 
flowers. And all was peace and beauty—save for the 
fierce fanaticism in the man’s heart, and the bitter, 
smouldering resentment in the woman’s. 


CHAPTER II 


THE BREAK-DOWN 

Four people sat at the old oak table in the oak-raftered 
dining-room of the Bishop’s palace that cay, and no 
greater contrast than they presented could well have ex¬ 
isted among beings of the same race. 

Dr. Rotherby—the Bishop—sat in pre-occupied silence 
scanning an ecclesiastical paper while he ate. He never 
encouraged conversation at any meal save dinner, and his 
sister, Miss Rotherby, nervous, pinched, and dyspeptic, 
supported him dutifully in this as in every other whim. 
She sat with her knitting on the table beside her ready 
to be picked up at every spare moment, on the principle 
that every second was of value—a short-sighted, unim¬ 
aginative woman whose whole attention was concentrated 
upon the accomplishment of her own salvation. 

Montague Rotherby, the sunburnt man of travel, sat 
between the two, and wondered what he was doing there. 
He had just wandered home from an expedition in Central 
Africa, and he had come hither with the half-formed 
intention of writing a book on his experiences. He 
wanted peace and quiet for the purpose, and these sur¬ 
roundings had seemed ideal. The Bishop and his sister 
had given him welcome, and he had believed himself to be 
fulfilling a family duty by visiting them. But he had 
begun already to realize that there was something very 

13 


14 


Tetherstones 


vital lacking in the atmosphere of the Palace. The place 
was stiff with orthodoxy, and he himself as much a 
stranger as he had ever been in the most desert corner 
of his travels. 

“Can’t stand this much longer,” was his thought, as 
he sat before the polished board on this the fourth day 
of his sojourn. 

And then his look fell upon the secretary seated opposite 
to him, and his interest stirred again. 

She sat, remote and silent, in the shadow of a heavy 
green curtain against which the pallor of her face took a 
ghastly hue. Her eyes were downcast, the brows above 
them slightly drawn, conveying somehow an impression 
of mute endurance to the observant onlooker. He watched 
her narrowly, having nothing else to occupy him, and 
the impression steadily grew as the meal proceeded. She 
scarcely touched the food before her, remaining almost 
statuesque in her immobility, had her obvious insignifi¬ 
cance not precluded so stately a term. To the man who 
watched her, her attitude expressed more than mere 
passivity. She was a figure of tragedy, and as it were 
in spite of itself his careless soul was moved to an un¬ 
wonted compassion. In silence he awaited developments. 

They came, more swiftly than even he anticipated. 
Very suddenly the Bishop looked up from his paper. 

“Miss Thorold, you have work to do. I beg you will 
not linger here if you have finished.” 

His voice came with the rasp of authority through the 
sultry summer quiet. The secretary started as if at the 
piercing of a nerve and instantly rose to leave the table. 
She pushed in her chair methodically, but oddly at that 
point her intention seemed to fail her. She stood sway¬ 
ing as one stricken with a curious uncertainty, gazing 
straight upwards with dazed eyes that ever travelled far- 


The Break-Down 


15 

ther and farther back as if they marked the flight of an 
invisible bird. 

Rotherby sprang to his feet, but he was too late. Even 
as he did so, she threw up her hands like a baffled swim¬ 
mer and fell straight backwards on the polished floor. 
The sound of her fall mingled with the furious exclama¬ 
tion that leapt to Rotherby’s lips—an exclamation which 
he certainly would not have uttered in a more reasoned 
moment—and he was round the table and by her side 
almost before the two other spectators had realized what 
was taking place. 

“Oh, good gracious!” gasped the Bishop’s sister, push¬ 
ing back her chair with the gesture of one seeking to 
avoid contact with something obnoxious. “What is it? 
What is the matter?” 

“It is only a faint.” Curt and contemptuous came the 
Bishop’s reply. He also pushed back his chair and rose, 
but with considerably more of annoyance than agitation. 
“Lay her in that chair, Montague! She will soon recover. 
She is only overcome by the heat.” 

“Overcome!” growled Montague, and he said it between 
his teeth. In that moment, cool man of the world though 
he was, he was angry, even furious, for the white face 
with its parted, colourless lips somehow excited more than 
pity. “She’s worn out—driven to death by that accursed 
typewriting. Why, she’s nothing but skin and bone!” 

He raised the slight, inert figure with the words, hold¬ 
ing it propped against his knee while with one hand on the 
dark head he pressed it forward. It was a device which 
he had* not thought would fail, but it had no effect upon 
the unconscious secretary, and a sharp misgiving went 
through him as he realized the futility of his efforts. 

He flung a brief command upwards, instinctively as¬ 
suming the responsibility. “Get some brandy—quick!” 


l 6 


Tetherstones 


'‘There is no brandy in the house/’ said the Bishop. 
“But this is nothing. It will pass. Have you never seen 
a woman faint before?” 

“Damnation!” flared forth Montague. “Do you want 
her to die on your hands ? There is brandy in a flask in 
my room. Send one of the servants for it!” 

“This is dreadful!” wailed Miss Rotherby hysterically. 
“I haven’t so much as a bottle of smelling-salts in the 
place! She has never behaved in this extraordinary way 
before! What can be the matter?” 

“Don’t be foolish!” said the Bishop, and firmly rang the 
bell. “She will be herself again in five minutes. If not, 
we will have a doctor.” 

“Better send for one at once,” said Montague with 
his fingers seeking a pulse that was almost imperceptible. 

“Very well,” said the Bishop stiffly. “Perhaps it would 
be the wisest course. Why do you kneel there? She 
would be far better in a chair.’" 

“Because I won’t take the responsibility of moving 
her,” said Montague. 

“This is very painful,” said Miss Rotherby tremu¬ 
lously, gathering up her knitting. “Is there nothing to be 
done? You are sure she isn’t dead?” 

“I am not at all sure,” said Montague. “I shouldn’t 
stay if I were you. But get someone to bring me that 
brandy at once!” 

He had his way, for there was about him a force that 
would not be denied. In moments of emergency he was 
accustomed to assert himself, but how it came about that 
when the brandy arrived, the Bishop himself had gone 
to telephone for a doctor and the Bishop’s sister had faded 
away altogether, lamenting her inability to be of use in 
so serious a crisis, even Montague could not very easily 
have said. He was still too angry and too anxious to 


The Break-Down 


17 

take much note of anything beyond the ghastly face that 
rested against his arm. 

Impatiently he dismissed the servant who was inclined 
to hang over him with futile suggestions, and then real¬ 
ized with a grimace that he was left in sole charge of a 
woman whom he scarcely knew, who might die at any mo¬ 
ment, if indeed she were not already dead. 

“Damn it, she shan’t!” he said to himself with grim 
resolution as this thought forced itself upon him. “If 
these miserable worms can’t do anything to save her, I 
will.” 

And he applied himself with the dexterity of a steady 
nerve to the task of coaxing a spoonful of brandy between 
the livid lips. 

He expected failure, but a slight tremor at the throat 
and then a convulsive attempt to swallow rewarded him. 
He lifted her higher, muttering words of encouragement 
of which he was hardly aware. 

“That’s all right. Stick to it! You’re nearly through. 
It’s good stuff that. Damn it, why didn’t that fool give 
me the water?” 

“Yes, it—does—burn!” came faintly from the quiver¬ 
ing lips. 

“It won’t hurt you,” declared Montague practically. 
“Feeling better, what? Don’t move yet! Let the brandy 
go down first!” 

Her eyelids were trembling painfully as though she 
sought to lift them, but could not. 

“Don’t try!” he advised. “You’ll be all right directly.” 

She stirred a groping hand. “Give me—something— 
to hold on to!” she whispered piteously. 

He gripped the cold fingers closely in his own. “That’s 
it. Now you’ll be all right. I know this sort of game— 
played it myself in my time. Take it easy! Don’t be in 


18 Tetherstones 

a hurry! Ah, that’s better. Have a cry! Best thing 
you can do!” 

The white throat was working again, and two tears 
came slowly from between the closed lids and ran down 
the drawn face. A sob, all the more agonizing because 
she strove with all her strength to suppress it, escaped her, 
and then another and another. She turned her face into 
the supporting arm with a desperate gesture. 

“Do forgive me! I can’t help it—I can’t help it!” 

“All right. It’s all right,” he said, and put his hand 
again on the dark head. “Don’t keep it in! It’ll do you 
more good than brandy.” 

She uttered a broken laugh in the midst of her an¬ 
guish, and the man’s eyes kindled a little. He liked 
courage. 

He held her for a space while she fought for self-con¬ 
trol, and when at length she turned her face back again, 
he was ready with a friendly smile of approval; for he 
knew that her tears would be gone. 

“That’s right,” he said. “You’re better now.” 

“Will you help me up?” she said. 

“Of course.” He raised her steadily, closely watching 
the brown eyes, drawn with pain, that looked up to his. 
He saw them darken as she found her feet and was pre¬ 
pared for the sudden nervous clutch of her hand on his 
arm. 

“Don’t let go of me!” she said hurriedly. 

He helped her to a chair by the French window. “Sit 
here till you feel better! It’s a fairly cool corner. Is that 
all right?” 

Her hand relaxed and fell. She lay back with a sigh. 
“Just for two minutes—not longer. I must get back to 
my work.’” 

“It’s that damned work that’s done it,” said Montague 


The Break-Down 


19 

Rotherby, with unexpected force. “You’ll have to go 
on sick leave—for this afternoon at least.” 

“Oh no,” said the secretary in her voice of quiet deci¬ 
sion. “I have no time to be ill.” 

Rotherby said no more, but after a pause he brought 
her a glass of water. She thanked him and drank, but 
the drawn look remained in her eyes and she moved as 
if afraid to turn her head. 

He watched her narrowly. “You’ll have a bad break¬ 
down if you don’t take a rest,” he said. 

She smiled faintly. “Oh no. I shall be all right. It’s 
just—the heat.” 

“It’s nothing of the kind,” he returned. “It’s over¬ 
work, and you know it. You’ll either kill yourself or go 
stark staring mad if you keep on.” 

She laughed again at that, and though faint, her 
laughter had a ring of indomitable resolution. “Oh, in¬ 
deed I shall not. I know exactly what my capabilities are. 
I have been unlucky to-day, but I am in reality much 
stronger than I seem.” 

He turned from her with the hint of a shrug. “No 
doubt you know your own business best, and of course 
I fully recognise that it is no part of mine to give ad¬ 
vice.” 

“Oh, please!” she said gently. 

That was all; but spoken in a tone that brought him 
back to her with a sharp turn. He looked at her, and 
was amazed at himself because the faint smile in her 
tired eyes gave him a new sensation. 

“Wasn’t that what you meant?” he said, after a mo¬ 
ment. 

“No,” she made quiet answer. “I never mean that to 
the people who show me kindness. It happens—much too 
seldom.” 


20 


Tetherstones 


She spoke with a dignity that was above pathos, but 
none the less was he touched. It was as if she had lifted 
the official mask to give him a glimpse of her soul, and 
in that glimpse he beheld something which he certainly 
had not expected to see. Again, almost against his will, 
was he stirred to a curious reverence. 

“You must have had a pretty rotten time of it,” he 
said. 

To which she made no reply, though in her silence he 
found no sign of ungraciousness, and was more at¬ 
tracted than repelled thereby. 

He remained beside her without speaking until the 
irritable, uneven tread of feet in the corridor warned 
them of the Bishop’s return; then again he looked at her 
and found her eyes upon him. 

“Thank you very much for all your kindness,’’ she said. 
“Please—will you go now?” 

“You wish it?” he said. 

“Yes.” Just the one word, spoken with absolute sim¬ 
plicity ! 

He lingered on the step. “I shall see you again?” 

He saw her brows move upwards very slightly. “Quite 
possibly,” she said. 

He turned from her with finality. “I shall,” he said, 
and passed out without a backward glance into the hot 
sunshine of the Palace garden. 



CHAPTER III 

A BUSINESS PROPOSITION 

There was a sheet of water in the Palace garden, fed 
by a bubbling spring. Cypress and old yew trees grew 
along its banks, and here and there the crumbling ruins 
of an old monastery that had once adjoined the Cathedral 
showed ivy-covered along the path that wound beside it. 
It was said that the frocked figure of an ancient friar 
was wont to pace this path in the moonlight, but none 
who believed the superstition ever had the courage to 
verify it. 

Montague Rotherby, wandering thither late that night 
after the rest of the household had retired, had no thought 
for apparitions of any description. He was wrapt in his 
own meditations, and neither the beauty of the place nor 
its eeriness appealed to him. He was beginning to real¬ 
ize that he had come to the wrong quarter for the peace 
his soul desired. A few brief, wholly dispassionate, words 
from his uncle’s lips had made it quite clear to him that 
it was possible even for a man of his undeniable position 
in the world to outstay his welcome, and, being possessed 
of a considerable amount of pride, Montague needed no 
second hint to be gone. 

But very curiously he found an inner influence at war 
with his resolution. He knew very well what had actu¬ 
ated che Bishop in giving him that very decided hint, and 
21 


22 Tetherstones 

that very motive was now strangely urging him in the 
opposite direction. 

To admit that he was attracted by that very insignifi¬ 
cant and wholly unimportant person, the Bishop’s secre¬ 
tary, was of course too preposterous for a man of his 
standing. The bare idea brought a cynical twist to his 
lips. But she had undeniably awakened his compassion— 
a matter for wonder but not for repudiation. Insignifi¬ 
cant she might be, but the dumb endurance of her had 
aroused his admiration. He wanted to stop and see fair 
play. 

Pacing to and fro beside the dark waters, he reviewed 
the situation. It was no business of his, of course, and 
perhaps he was a fool to suffer himself to take an inter¬ 
est in so comparatively slight a matter. It was not his 
way to waste time over the grievances of outsiders. But 
this woman—somehow this woman with her dark, tragic 
eyes had taken hold of his imagination. Scoff though 
he might, he could not thrust the thought of her out of 
his mind. Possibly her treatment of himself was one of 
the chief factors in her favour. For Montague Rotherby 
was accustomed to deference from those whom he re¬ 
garded as social inferiors. It was true that he had taken 
her at a disadvantage that morning, but the very fact 
of his notice was generally enough to gain him a standing 
wherever he sought for one. To be held at a distance 
by one so obviously beneath him was a novel sensation 
that half-piqued and half-amused him. And she needed 
a champion too, yet scorned to enlist him on her side. It 
was wholly against her will that she had gained his 
sympathy. Though perfectly courteous, she had made it 
abundantly clear that she had no desire to be placed under 
any obligation to him. And, mainly for that reason, he 
was conscious of a wish to help her. 


23 


A Business Proposition 

“She’ll sink if I don’t,” he muttered to himself, and 
forgot to question as to what on earth it mattered to him 
whether she sank or swam. 

This was the problem that vexed his soul as he paced 
up and down in the moonlight on that summer night, 
and as he walked the resolution grew up within him not 
to leave until he had had the chance of speech with her 
again. She might refuse to grant it to him, might 
seek to avoid him. Instinct told him that she would; but 
he was a man to whom opposition was as a draught of 
wine, and it had never been his experience to be withstood 
for long by a woman. It would amuse him to overcome 
her resistance. 

So ran his thoughts, and he smiled to himself as he be¬ 
gan to retrace his steps. In a contest such as this might 
prove to be, the issue was assured and could not take long 
of achievement; but it looked as if he might have to put 
a strain on the Bishop’s hospitality for a few days even 
yet. Somehow that reflection appealed to his cynical sense 
of humour. It seemed then that he was to sacrifice his 
pride to this odd will-o’-the-wisp that had suddenly 
gleamed at him from the eyes of a woman in whom he 
really took no interest whatever—one, moreover, who 
would probably resent any attempt on his part to befriend 
her. Recalling her low words of dismissal, he decided 
that this attitude was far the most likely one for her to 
adopt, but the probability did not dismay him. A hunter 
of known repute, he was not easily to be diverted from 
his quarry, and, sub-consciously he was aware of possi¬ 
bilities in the situation that might develop into actualities 
undreamed-of at the commencement. 

In any case he intended to satisfy himself that the possi¬ 
bilities no longer existed before he abandoned the quest. 
Wifi'i no avowed end in view, he determined to follow his 


24 


Tethers tones 


inclination wherever it might lead. She had given him 
a new sensation and—though perhaps it was not wholly a 
pleasant one—he desired to develop it further. To a 
man of his experience new sensations were scarce. 

The effect of the moonlight, filtering through the 
boughs of the yew and striking upon the dark water, sent 
a thrill of artistic pleasure through his soul. He stood 
still to appreciate it with all the home-coming joy of the 
wanderer. What a picture for an artist’s brush! He 
possessed a certain gift in that direction himself, but he 
had merely cultivated it as a refuge from boredom and 
it had never carried him very far. But to-night the 
romance and the beauty appealed to him with peculiar 
force, and he stood before it with something of reverence. 
Then, very softly chiming, there came the sound of the 
Cathedral clock, followed after a solemn pause by eleven 
deep strokes. 

He counted them mechanically till the last one died 
away, then turned to retrace his steps, realizing with a 
shrug the lateness of the hour. 

It was thus that he saw her standing in the moonlight— 
a slender figure, oddly girlish considering the impression 
she had made upon him that day, the face in profile, clear- 
cut, with a Madonna-like purity of outline that caught 
his artistic sense f afresh. He realized in an instant that 
she was unaware of him, and stood motionless, watching 
her, afraid to move lest he should disturb her. 

She had come to the edge of the water and was gazing 
up the rippling pathway that the moonlight flung from 
the farther shore to her feet. Her stillness had that 
statuesque quality that he had marked before in her, and, 
oddly, here in the moonlight he no longer found her in¬ 
significant. It was as if in this world of silver radiance 
she had mysteriously come into her own, and the man’s 


25 


A Business Proposition 

spirit stirred within him, quickening his pulses. He 
wanted to call to her as one calls to his mate. 

Perhaps some hidden telepathy warned her of his 
presence, perhaps she heard the call, unuttered though it 
was, for even as that unaccountable thrill went through 
him she moved, turned with a strange deliberation and 
faced him. She showed no surprise, spoke no word, her 
silence and her passivity surrounding her as though with 
a magic circle which none might cross without her leave. 
The mantle of her unobtrusiveness had fallen from her. 
She stood, superbly erect, queen-like in her pose and the 
unconscious dignity of her aloofness. 

And Montague Rotherby was actually at a loss before 
her, uncertain whether to go or stay. It was a very 
transient feeling, banished by the swift assertion of his 
pride; but it had been there, and later he smiled ironically 
over the memory of his discomfiture. He had called to her 
too urgently, and she had replied with instant dismissal, 
though no word had passed between them. 

Now, with determination and a certain audacity, he 
ignored her dismissal and took words for his weapon. 
With a smile he came towards her, he crossed the magic 
circle, protecting himself with the shield of the common¬ 
place. 

“I thought we should meet again,” he said. “Are 
you better?” 

She thrust past his shield with something of contempt. 
“I certainly did not expect to meet you—or anyone—- 
here,” she said. 

His smile became almost a laugh. Did she think him 
so easily repulsed? 

“No?” he said easily. “Yet we probably came—both 
of us—with the same intention. Tell me what happened 
after I left you this afternoon! I tried to find out from 


26 


Tetherstones 


his lordship, but was badly snubbed for my pains, which I 
think you will admit was hardly fair treatment.” 

He saw her face change very slightly at his words, 
but she made no verbal response to them. 

“I am quite well again,” she said guardedly, after a 
moment. “Please do not trouble yourself any further 
about me! It is sheer waste of time.” 

“Oh, impossible!” he exclaimed gallantly; then, seeing 
her look, “No, seriously, Miss Thorold, I refuse to be put 
off like that. I’ve no right whatever—as you have every 
right to point out—but I must insist upon knowing what 
happened. I won’t rest till I know.” 

She looked at him for a few seconds, her dark eyes 
very intent as though they searched behind every word he 
uttered for a hidden motive; then abruptly, with the ges¬ 
ture of one who submits either from indifference or of 
necessity, she made brief reply. 

“What happened was a visit from the doctor and a 
solemn warning that I must take a rest as soon as his 
lordship can conveniently release me from my duties.” 

“Ah!” said Montague. 

He had expected it, but somehow her method of con¬ 
veying the news—though he realized it to be characteris¬ 
tic—took him by surprise. Perhaps, remembering that 
he had held her in her weakness a few hours before while 
she had wept against his arm, he had hoped for greater 
intimacy in the telling. As it was, he found himself act¬ 
ually hesitating as to how to receive it. 

She certainly did not ask for sympathy, this woman of 
the curt speech and tired eyes. Rather she repudiated 
the bare notion. Yet was he conscious of a keen desire 
to offer it. 

He stood in silence for a moment or two, bracing him¬ 
self for a distinct effort. 


A Business Proposition 27 

‘‘Does it mean very much to you?” he asked at length. 

Her short laugh grated upon him. It had the sound of 
a wrong chord. She had smiled at him that morning, 
and he had felt her charm. Her laughter should have 
been sheer music. 

He; voice had the same hard quality as she answered 
him. “No more than it does to most people when they 
lose their livelihood, I should say.” 

But, strangely, her words gave him courage to pass 
the barrier. He spoke as one worker to another. 

“What damnable luck 1” he said. 

Perhaps they were the most sincere words he had yet 
spoken, and they pierced her armour. He saw her chin 
quiver suddenly. She turned her face from him. 

“I shall worry through,” she said, and her voice was 
brisk and business-like, wholly free from emotion. “I’m 
not afraid of that.” 

But she was afraid, and he knew it. And something 
within him leapt to the knowledge. He knew that he had 
found the weak joint. 

“Oh, there’s always a way out,” he said. “I’ve been 
in some tight corners myself, and Fve proved that every 
time.” He broke off, with his eyes upon the rippling 
pathway of moonlight that stretched to their feet. Then, 
abruptly as she herself had spoken: “Is the Bishop going 
to do anything to make things easier?” he asked. 

She made a small choking sound and produced a 
laugh. “Good heavens!” she said. “Do you really 
imgaine I would let him if he would?” 

“Why not?” said Montague boldly. “You’ve worked 
hard for him. If he has any sense of what is fitting, he 
will regard it in the light of a debt.” 

“Will he?” said Frances Thorold sardonically. 

“If he hasn’t the decency to do that—” said Montague. 


28 Tetherstones 

She turned upon him in a flash and he saw that her 
bosom was heaving. 

“Do you think I would take his charity ?” she said. 
“Or anyone else’s? I’d rather—far rather—starve—as 
I have before!” 

“Good God!” said Montague. 

He met the fierce fire of her eyes with a swift kindling 
of admiration in his own. Somehow in that moment 
she was magnificent. She was like a statue of Victory 
in the midst of defeat. Then he saw the fire die down, 
and marked it with regret. 

“Good night,” she said abruptly. “I am going in.” 

He thrust out his hand to her with a quickness of im¬ 
pulse he did not stop to question. “Please wait a minute!” 
he said. “Surely you are not afraid of my offering you 
charity?” 

He smiled as he said it—the smile of confident friend¬ 
ship. There were moments when Montague Rotherby, 
with the true gambler’s spirit, staked all upon one cast. 
And this was one of them. But—possessing also a con¬ 
siderable knowledge of human nature—he had small fear 
for the result. He knew before he put down his stake 
that he was dealing with a woman of too generous a tem¬ 
perament to make him suffer complete failure. Also, 
he was too old and too cynical a player to care greatly 
whether he won or lost. He was beginning to admit that 
she attracted him. But after all, what of it? It was 
only boredom that lent romance to this moonlight scene. 
In three days—in less—he could banish it from his mind. 
There were other scenes awaiting his careless coming, 
other players also . . . higher stakes. . . . 

The thought was still running in his mind even as he 
felt the quick grip of her slender hand in his. He had 
not expected complete victory. It took him by surprise. 


29 


A Business Proposition 

“You are far too good,” she said, and he heard the 
quiver of emotion that she no longer sought to suppress 
in her voice, “too understanding, to offer me that.” 

He squeezed her hand in answer. “I’m offering you 
friendship,” he said. 

“Thank you,” she said gently. 

He smiled into her eyes. “It may be of an unorthodox 
kind, but that we can’t help—under the circumstances. 
It’s genuine anyway.” 

“I am sure of that,” she said. 

He wondered what made her sure, and was conscious 
of a moment’s discomfiture, but swiftly fortified himself 
with the reflection that she was no girl, and if she were 
still lacking in experience of the ways of the world, that 
was her affair, not his. On second thoughts he did not 
believe her to be lacking in this respect. She had shown 
too much caution in her treatment of his earlier advances. 

He released her hand, but he stood very close to her in 
the shadow of the cypress-tree. “And now—as a friend,” 
he said, “will you tell me what you think of doing?” 

She made no movement away from him. Possibly she 
had not the strength to turn away from the only human 
being in the world who had offered to stand by her in 
her hour of need. She answered him with a simplicity 
that must have shown him clearly how completely she 
had banished all doubt. 

“I really haven’t an idea what I shall do—what I can 
do, in fact, if my health gives way—unless,” a piteous 
quiver of laughter sounded in her voice, “I go into the 
country and learn to milk cows. There seem to be more 
cows than anything else in this part of the world.” 

“But have you no resources at all?” he questioned. 
“No people?” 

“But one doesn’t turn to one’s people for help,” said 


30 


Tetherstones 


Frances in her quiet way. “My parents both died long 
ago. I was dependent in my girlhood upon a married 
brother—a business man—with a family. I soon broke 
away, and there is no going back. It wouldn’t be fair 
to anyone.” 

“Of course not,” said Montague. “But wouldn’t he 
tide you over this crisis ?” 

“While I learn to milk cows you mean ?” The laughter 
in her voice sounded less precarious now. “I couldn’t 
possibly ask him. He has sons to educate, and a wife 
whom I can’t abide. It wouldn’t be fair.” 

“But must you milk cows?” he questioned. “Is there 
nothing you can do to fill in time—till you get another 
secretary’s job?” 

“Ah! And when will that be? Secretary’s jobs are 
not easily come by. I have only had one other, and then 
my employer died and I was out of work for months. 
That is why I can’t afford to be out of work now. I’ve 
had no time to save.” 

She spoke without pathos, a mere statement of fact. 
He liked her for it. Her simple courage combined with 
her businesslike expression thereof attracted him more 
and more. Whatever hard blows Fate might have in 
store for her, he was convinced that she would endure 
them unflinching, would stand on her feet to the very 
end. It was refreshing to meet this sort of woman. 
With all the present-day talk of woman’s independence 
he had seldom found her independent when hurt. He 
was beginning to realize wherein this woman’s fascination 
lay. It was in the fact that whatever happened to herself 
she would accept responsibility. Whatever her losses 
might be, she would borrow no man’s counters. She was 
answerable to none, and she held herself strong enough 
to hold her own. 


31 


A Business Proposition 

That impression came upon him very forcibly as he 
talked with her, and it was to remain with him for all 
time. Here was a woman who made no claim of equality 
or independence, but—she stood alone. 

“You are marvellously brave,” he said, and he uttered 
the words almost involuntarily. “It makes me all the 
keener to be of use.” He paused. “You know, I could 
be of use if you would allow me.” 

“In what way?” she said. 

He hesitated. “You won’t be angry—turn me down 
unheard?” 

“You don’t realize that I have great reason to be grate¬ 
ful to you,” she said. 

“You haven’t,” he returned quickly. “I am not much 
of a philanthropist. I don’t pretend to take an interest in 
people who fail to interest me. I am no better than the 
majority, Miss Thorold, worse than a good many.” 

He saw her faint smile. “But better than some,” she 
suggested. 

He smiled in answer. “Well, perhaps,—better than 
some. Is there really nothing you can do to fill in time 
for the present ? Because—I can find you another secre¬ 
tary’s job later on, if that is what you really want.” 

“Can you?” she said. “But how?” 

He was aware of a momentary embarrassment, and 
showed it. “It’s entirely a business proposition. I am 
just home from Africa. I am going to write a 
book on travel and sport. I’ve got my notes, heaps of 
’em. It’s just a matter of sorting and arranging in a 
fairly digestible form. I shall want a secretary, and I 
have an idea we would arrive at an arrangement not in¬ 
jurious to either of us. You can help me if you will— 
if you care to—and I should think myself lucky to get 
anyone so efficient.” 


32 


Tetherstones 


“How do you know I am efficient?” she asked in her 
straight, direct way. 

He laughed a little. “Oh, that! Well, mainly by the 
way you headed me off this morning when I showed a 
disposition to interrupt the progress of your work.” 

“I see.” She spoke quietly, without elation. His sug¬ 
gestion seemed to excite no surprise in her, and he won¬ 
dered a little while he waited for more. “Do you want 
me to decide at once?” she asked. 

“Don’t you want to?” he continued. “You have no 
one—apparently—to consult but yourself.” 

“That is true. But—” she spoke gravely—“it takes a 
little while to consult even oneself sometimes. What if 
I took up work with you and found I did not like it?” 

“You would be under no obligation to stop,” he said, 
aware of a sudden, inexplicable desire to overcome her 
objections. “And you would be no worse off than you 
are at present. But—I flatter myself you would like it. 
I think the work would interest you. I am convinced at 
least that it would not bore you.” 

“That consideration would not influence me one way 
or the other,” she said. “There are always drawbacks 
of some description to every walk of life, and boredom— 
well, boredom is by no means the worst of them.” 

“There I disagree with you,” said Rotherby boldly. 
“If vou can honestly sav that, then you have never really 
lived.” 

“That is quite true,”’ said Frances. “I never have.” 

He gave her a sudden, hard look. “Don’t you want 
to?” he said. 

She uttered her faint laugh, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t 
—especially—want to starve,” she said. “But—I assure 
you I would rather do that than fail to earn my keep.” 

“I fully realize that,” he said. “Will you give me a 


33 


A Business Proposition 

trial then, or let me give you one ? I don’t know how 
you put these things, but it means the same thing, I be¬ 
lieve.” 

“Oh no!” said Frances. “It means something very 
different. And neither you nor I had better make up our 
minds to-night. You are very kind, but very rash; and 
I think by to-morrow morning you may regret this. In 
any case, let us wait till then!” 

“For your satisfaction or mine?” he said. 

“For both.” Prompt and steady came her reply, but 
he was disconcerted no longer. 

“Will you tell me one thing?” he said. 

Her eyes came to his. “Certainly if I can.” 

“Only this.” He spoke quickly, with a certain mastery. 
“If by to-morrow I have not changed my mind, shall you 
accept my offer?” 

She raised her brows slightly. “Whv do you ask me 
that?” 

“Because I want to know what to expect. I want to 
know if you make that condition for your sake or mine.” 
Unhesitatingly he went to the point. He was very nearly 
sure of her, but still not quite. 

She paused for some seconds before she answered him. 
He wondered if she were seeking a means of escape. 
Then very calmly she gave him her reply, and he knew 
that the game was his. 

“I have said it was for both, because if you repent of 
the bargain, so shall I. But—if you do not repent, then 
I shall accept your offer with gratitude. But you have 
acted upon impulse, and I think you ought to take time 
to consider.” 

“It rests with me then?” said Rotherby. 

“Yes, it rests with you.” Quietly, even coldly, she 
yielded the point. “Of course, as you say, if you decide. 


34 


Tetherstones 


to take me, it will only be on trial. And if I fail to satisfy 
you, we are not worse off than we are at present. But 
please do not decide before to-morrow!” 

The words were a request. The tone was almost a 
command. He could ignore neither, and he swept her a 
deep bow. 

“Madam, your wishes in this matter shall be respected. 
To-morrow then—we decide!” 

“Thank you,” said Frances quietly. 

She turned to go, but suddenly stopped short. He was 
aware of a change in her—a tremor of agitation. 

“Ah!” she said, under her breath. 

She was looking out of the shadow into the moonlight, 
and swiftly his eyes followed hers. 

A figure in black was walking slowly and quite noise¬ 
lessly over the grass by the side of the path. 

“Who on earth—” began Montague. 

She silenced him with a rapid gesture. “Hush! It is 
the Bishop!” 

He reflected later that from her point of view it might 
have been wiser to have ignored the warning and have 
gone forth openly to meet the advancing intruder. But— 
perhaps it was the romance of the hour, perhaps merely 
her impulse communicating itself to him—or even, it 
might have been some deeper motive, barely acknowledged 
as yet that actuated him—whatever the influence at work, 
he obeyed her, drawing back in silence against the trunk 
of the yew tree. 

And so, like two conspirators trapped in that haunted 
garden, they drew close together in the depth of the 
shadow and dumbly watched the black-gowned figure ad¬ 
vance over the moonlit grass. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE ACCUSER 

He came very slowly, with priest-like dignity, yet in 
his deliberation of movement there was purpose. It was 
seldom that the Bishop of Burminster performed any 
action without a definite end in view. There was indeed 
something almost fatalistic in all that he did. The wan¬ 
dering friar himself who was said to haunt that sleeping 
garden could not have moved with greater assurance or 
more studied detachment of pose. 

The man and the woman watching him from their 
hiding-place drew closer together as if in some fashion 
his coming inspired them with awe. It was true that 
Montague Rotherby’s lips bore a smile of cynical amuse¬ 
ment, as though the situation appealed more to his sense 
of humour than to any other emotion. But it was not 
any humorous impulse that moved him to put his hand 
suddenly and reassuringly through the tense thin arm 
of the secretary and closely grip it. 

She started sharply at his touch, made for a moment as 
if she would free herself, then stiffened and stood in 
rigid immobility. 

For the Bishop was drawing nearer, and there was 
resolution as well as protection in Montague’s hold. 

Slowly came the advancing figure, and the tension of 
the two who waited grew acute. Though he smiled, Mon¬ 
tague’s teeth were clenched, and there was a glitter of 
35 


36 


Tetherstones 


ferocity in his eyes. He formed his plan of action while 
he waited. If the Bishop passed them by, he would re¬ 
lease his companion instantly, bid her begone, and him¬ 
self cover her retreat. 

It was the only feasible plan, and in the morning she 
would thank him. In the morning she would realize that 
circumstances had placed her in his debt, and she would 
be ready to meet the obligation in accordance with his 
v r iews. She certainly could not flout him or even keep 
him at a distance after this. Without forcing himself 
upon her, he had become her intimate friend, and she 
was not a woman to repudiate an obligation. She would 
acknowledge with gratitude all that he had done for her. 

He no longer questioned with himself as to wherein lay 
the attraction that drew him. The attraction was there, 
and he responded to it, without scruple, as he had re¬ 
sponded to such all his life. After all, it was no responsi¬ 
bility of his what she chose to do with her life. It was 
not likely that he was the first man to come into her 
existence. She knew very well what she was doing, and 
if she relaxed her guard he had no hesitation in storming 
her defence. After all, it was but a game, and women 
were quite as adroit in their moves as men, even more so 
in some cases, he reflected, though in this one it had cer¬ 
tainly so far not been a difficult contest. 

Swiftly the thoughts succeeded each other as he 
watched with a grim vigilance the advancing figure. 

The Bishop was close to them now, almost abreast of 
them. He could see the harsh lines on the thin, ascetic 
countenance. There was something mediaeval about that 
iron visage, something that was reminiscent of the Inqui¬ 
sition. This was the type of man who would torture 
and slay for the fulfilment of an ideal—a man of stern 
fanaticism, capable of the highest sacrifice, but incapable 


The Accuser 


37 

of that which even a dog may show to his master—the 
Divine offering of love. 

Now he had reached the old yew in the shadow of 
which they stood, as if he had attained his destination he 
stood still. 

Montague felt a sharp shiver run through his com¬ 
panion’s arm, and he gripped it more closely, with a 
steady, warning pressure. The Bishop was not looking in 
their direction. There was yet a chance that he might 
pass on and leave them unobserved. The situation was 
ridiculous. They had no reason for concealing them¬ 
selves. But the instinct, old as mankind, that prompts the 
two whom Fate has thrown together to avoid the intru¬ 
sion of a third, the unacknowledged dread of being caught 
in an equivocal position, the half-formed wish to protect 
that gleaming, iridescent wonder that is called Romance 
from the sacrilegious touch of the outside world, all of 
these impulses had conspired to bring about this absurd 
concealment which the man found both gratifying and 
exasperating. To be discovered now would be humiliat¬ 
ing, but if the critical moment passed and they were left 
in peace he recognized that another powerful link would 
be added to the chain that some caprice had induced him 
to forge. 

As for the woman, he had no clue to her thoughts. He 
only knew that with her whole soul she hoped to escape 
undetected. 

The Bishop had turned towards the edge of the lake, 
and was standing there in sombre reflection. 

“What on earth is he thinking about?” questioned Mon¬ 
tague with himself. “He can’t know we are here! He 
wouldn’t play such a cad’s game as that.” 

Nevertheless his heart misgave him. He had no faith 
in the Bishop’s sense of fair play. In his own weird 


38 


Tetherstones 


fashion he believed him to be even more unscrupulous 
than he was himself. That any beauty of scene held him 
in that trance-like stillness he did not believe. He was 
merely thinking out some fell design for the glory of the 
fetish he worshipped. 

Montague began to grow impatient. Were they to be 
kept there in suspense all night while he worked out his 
fantastic problems ? He began to consider the possibility 
of making a move unheard and unseen while the Bishop 
remained wrapt in meditation. He had passed so close 
to them without seeing them that it seemed more than 
possible that an escape could be accomplished without 
any very serious risk. 

He pressed his companion’s arm and was aware of 
her eyes strangely luminous in the shadow turned towards 
him in enquiry. By some trick of the moonlight, the 
pale features took on a sudden unexpected beauty. He 
saw her in that moment not as the woman she was, faded 
and weary with the long harassment of overwork and 
anxiety, but as the woman she might have been, vivid, 
enchanting, young. . . . The illusion was so arresting 
that he forgot his purpose and stood, gazing upon her, 
bound by a spell that he had not known for years. 

There came a sound through the magic stillness—the 
soft chiming of the quarter from the Cathedral tower. 
The Bishop stirred as if a hand had been laid upon him, 
stirred and turned. 

His face was in the full moonlight, and it was the face 
of a denunciatory prophet. He spoke in hollow tones that 
reached them like a voice of doom. 

“As I thought!” he said. “As I might have known! 
You may come out of your hiding-place. No subterfuge 
will serve either of you. Go—both of you! Let me 
never see you again!” 



The Accuser 


39 


“Damnation!” said Montague. 

The vision flashed away from him. He saw only the 
red fire of his wrath. Then, strangely, the vision re¬ 
turned. He saw her again—a woman of amazing possi¬ 
bilities, a woman to dream about, a woman to love. . . . 

He took her cold hand very firmly into his own and 
led her forth. 

She tried to resist him, to free herself. He knew that 
later. At the time he realized but the one overmastering 
determination to vindicate himself and her in the eyes of 
the denunciatory prophet. He strode forward and con¬ 
fronted him. 

“Damnation!” he said again, and he flung the word 
with all the force of his fury. “Who are you to dare to 
speak to either of us in this strain? What the devil do 
you mean by it?” 

He spoke as one man speaking to another, but the calm 
gesture of the Bishop’s uplifted hand dispelled the situa¬ 
tion before it could be established. 

“Who am I ?” he said. “I am a priest of the Lord to 
whom profanity is no more than the vapouring of fools. 
How do I dare to speak to you thus? I have never 
flinched from my duty in the bold rebuke of vice. What 
do I mean? I mean that you and this woman have been 
detected by me on the very verge of sin. And I tell you to 
go, because I cannot stop your sinning until you have 
endured your hell and—if God is merciful—begun to 
work out your own salvation.” 

“The man is mad!” said Montague. 

A moment before, he had been in a mood to take him 
by the throat, but now he paused, arrested by the fanati¬ 
cal fervour of the Bishop’s speech. Quite suddenly he 
realized that neither argument nor indignation would 
have the smallest effect. And, curiously, his anger cooled. 


40 


Tetherstones 


Any other man he would have hurled into the placid 
waters of the lake without an instant’s hesitation. But 
this man was different. Almost involuntarily he accorded 
him the indulgence which the abnormal can practically 
always command. 

He turned very quietly to the woman whose hand had 
closed convulsively in his own, but who stood beside him, 
immobile and emotionless as ,a statue. 

“Miss Thorold,” he said, “I must apologize to you 
for—quite inadvertently—placing you in this extraordi¬ 
nary situation. The whole thing is too monstrous for dis¬ 
cussion. I only ask you to believe that I regret it from 
the bottom of my heart, and I beg that you will not 
allow anything so outrageous to prejudice you with re¬ 
gard to the future.” 

Her eyes were downcast. She heard him without rais¬ 
ing them. And still no shade of feeling crossed her 
death-white face as she made reply. 

“I am not likely to do that,” she said coldly and 
proudly. “I am not likely to blame you for showing 
kindness to me in the house of one whom mercy and 
humanity are unknown. I do not hold you responsible 
for another man’s wickedness.” 

It was a challenge, clearly and unhesitatingly spoken, 
and Montague marvelled at the icy courage of her, the 
biting disdain. As she spoke, she drew her hand from 
his, and paused, facing him, not deigning to look upon 
her accuser; then, as he spoke no word, calmly, regally, 
with head erect but eyes cast down, she walked away over 
the moonlit grass, and so passed out of their sight. 


CHAPTER V 


the holiday 

The soft thudding of cows’ feet through the red mud 
of a Devon lane—the chirruping call of a girl’s voice in 
their rear—the warning note of a blackbird in the hedge 
—iand the magic fragrance of honeysuckle everywhere! 
Was ever summer day so fair? Was ever world so 
green ? 

“Drat that young Minnie! If she hasn’t taken the 
wrong turning again!” cried the voice that had chirruped 
to the herd, and there followed a chuckling laugh that 
had in it that indescribable sweetness of tone which is 
peculiar only to those of a contented mind. 

It took Frances Thorold by storm—that laugh. She 
got up swiftly from her knoll, sketching block in hand, 
to peer over the hedge. 

The hedge was ragged and the lane was deep, but she 
caught a glimpse of the red cows, trooping by, and of 
the pink dress and wildly untidy hair of their attendant. 
Then there came a sharp whistle, and a dog went scam¬ 
pering by, audible but unseen in the leafy depth of the 
lane. There followed a blundering check among the ani¬ 
mals, and then again the clear, happy voice calling to 
order and the equally cheery bark of the dog. 

“That’ll do, Roger! Come back!” cried the bright 
voice. “Minnie won’t do it again till next time, so you 

41 


42 


Tetherstones 


needn’t scold. Now, Penelope, what are you stopping for ? 
Get on, old girl! Don’t hold up the traffic! Ah, here’s 
a motor-car!” 

It was not annoyance so much as a certain comic resig¬ 
nation that characterized the last sentence. The buzz of 
an engine and the sharp grinding of brakes upon skidding 
wheels succeeded it, and Frances, still peering over the 
ragged hedge, flushed suddenly and deeply, almost to the 
colour of the sorrel that grew about her feet. 

She made a small movement as though she would with¬ 
draw herself, but some stronger motive kept her where she 
was. The car came grinding to a standstill almost abreast 
of her, and she heard the animals go blundering past. 

“Thank you, sir,” called the fresh voice, with its irre¬ 
sistible trill of gaiety. “Sorry we take up so much room.” 

“Don’t mention it! You’re as much right as I—if 
not more,” called back the driver of the car. 

Frances stirred then, stirred and drew back. She left 
her green vantage-ground and sat down again on the 
bank. Her eyes returned to her sketching-block, and she 
began to work industriously. The hot colour receded 
slowly from her face. It took on a still, mask-like ex¬ 
pression as though carved in marble. But the tired look 
had wholly left it, and the drawn lines about the mouth 
were barely perceptible. They looked now as if they 
sought to repress a smile. 

She chose a tiny paint-brush from her box, and began 
to work with minute care. The sketch under her hand 
was an exquisite thing, delicate as a miniature—just a 
brown stream with stepping-stones and beyond them the 
corner of an old thatched barn—Devon in summer-time. 
The babble of the stream and the buzz of a million in¬ 
sects were in that tender little sketch with its starry, 
meadow flowers and soft grey shadows. She had re- 


43 


The Holiday 

veiled in the making of it, and now it was nearly finished. 

She had counted upon finishing it that afternoon, but 
for some reason, after that episode in the lane, her hand 
seemed to have lost its cunning. With the fine brush be¬ 
tween her fingers she stopped, for her hand was shaking. 
A faint frown, swiftly banished, drew her brows, and 
then one of them went up at a humorous angle, and she 
began to smile. 

The next moment very quietly she returned the brush 
unused to its box, laid both sketching-block and paints 
aside, and clasped her hands about her knees, waiting. 

The commotion in the lane had wholly ceased, but 
there was a sound of feet squelching in the mud on the 
other side of the hedge. Frances turned her head to 
listen. Finally, the smile still about her lips, she spoke. 

“Are you looking for someone ?” 

“By Jove!” cried back a voice in swift and hearty re¬ 
sponse. “So you’re there, are you? I thought I couldn’t 
be wrong—through a stream and past a barn, and down 
a hill—what damnable hills they are too in this part of 
the world! How on earth does one get up there ?” 

Quite concisely and without agitation she made reply. 
“One usually goes to the bottom of the hill, opens a gate 
and walks up on the other side.” 

“Oh, that’s too much to ask,” protested the voice below 
her. “Isn’t there some hole where one can get through?” 

“If one doesn’t mind spoiling one’s clothes,” said 
Frances. 

“Oh, damn the clothes—this infernal mud too for that 
matter! Here goes!” 

There followed sounds of a leap and a scramble—a 
violent shaking of the nut-trees and brambles that com¬ 
posed the hedge—and finally a man’s face, laughing and 
triumphant, appeared above the confusion. 


44 Tetherstones 

“By gad,” he said, “you look as if you were on a 
throne!” 

She smiled at him, without rising. “It is quite a com¬ 
fortable perch. I come here every day. In fact,” she 
indicated the sketching-block by her side. “This is how I 
amuse myself.” 

He came to her, carrying a trail of honeysuckle 
which he laid at her feet. “May I share the throne?” he 
said. 

She looked at him, not touching the flowers, her smile 
faintly quizzical. “You can sit on a corner of this rug 
if you like. It is rather a ragged affair, but it serves its 
purpose.” 

She indicated the corner furthest from her, and 
Rotherby dropped down upon it with a satisfied air. “Oh, 
this is a loafer’s paradise. How are you getting on, 
Miss Thorold? You look—” he regarded her critically— 
“you look like one who has bathed in magic dew.” 

She met his look, her own wholly impersonal. “I feel 
rather like that,” she said. “It has been a wonderful 
fortnight. I am quite ready for work.” 

He leaned upon his elbow, still carelessly watching her. 
“Have you learnt to milk cows yet?” he asked. 

“Well, no!” She laughed a little. “But I have 
several times watched the operation. You saw that girl 
just now, driving the cows back to pasture for the night. 
She comes from such a dear old farm on the moor called 
Tetherstones. I have stood at the door of the cowshed 
and watched her. She is wonderfully quick at it.” 

“Is she going to give you lessons?” he said idly. 

“I haven’t got to the point of asking her yet. We only 
pass the time of day when we meet.” 

Frances picked up her sketching-block again. Her 
hand was quite steady now. 


45 


The Holiday 

'‘May I see?” said Rotherby. 

“When it is finished,” she said. 

“No, now, please!” His tone had a hint of imperious¬ 
ness. 

She leaned forward with the faintest possible sugges¬ 
tion of indulgence, such as one might show to a child, 
and gave it to him. 

He took it in silence, studied it at first casually, then 
more closely, with growing interest, finally looked up at 
her. 

“You ought to find a ready market for this sort of 
thing. It’s exquisite.” 

She coloured then vividly, almost painfully, and the 
man’s eyes kindled, watching her. 

“Do you really think that?” she asked in a low voice. 

“Of course I do. It isn’t to my interest to say it, is 
it? You’ve mistaken your vocation.” 

He smiled with the words and gave her back the 
sketch. 

“It isn’t a paying game—except for the chosen few. 
But I believe I could find you a market for this sort of 
thing. I had no idea you were so talented.” 

“It has always been my pastime,” said Frances rather 
wistfully. “But I couldn’t make a living at it.” 

“You could augment a living,” he said. 

“Ah! But one needs interest for that. And I—” she 
hesitated—“I don’t think I am very good at pushing my 
wares.” 

He laughed. “Well, I’ll supply the interest—such as it 
is. I’ll do my best anyway. You go on sketching for a 
bit, and I’ll come and look on and admire. Shall I?” 

She gave him a steady look. “When are you going to 
begin your book?” 

“Oh, that!” he spoke with easy assurance. “That’ll 


4 6 


Tetherstones 


have to keep for a bit. I’m not in the mood for it yet. 
By and by,—in the winter-” 

Her face changed a little. “In that case,” she said, 
slowly, “I ought to set about finding another post.” 

“Oh, rot!” said Montague with lightness. “Why?” 

She turned from her steady regard of him, and looked 
down at the sketch in her hand. “Because,” she said, her 
voice chill and constrained as was its habit in moments of 
emotion, “I haven’t money to carry me on till then. I 
shouldn’t have wasted this fortnight if I had known.” 

“It hasn’t been wasted,” argued Montague, still careless 
and unimpressed. “You couldn’t have done without it.” 

She did not lift her eyes. “It is quite true I needed a 
rest,” she said, “but I could have employed the time in 
trying to find another post. I could have advertised. I 
could have answered advertisements.” 

“And ended up as you are now minus the cost of the 
postage,” said Montague. 

She took up her brush again. “Yes, that is quite possi¬ 
ble; but I should have had the satisfaction of knowing 
that I had done my best.” 

“You’ve done much more for yourself by just taking a 
rest and sketching,” said Montague. “Have you done 
any besides this?” 

She answered him with her eyes upon her work. 
“Three.” 

“Will you let me see them?” 

“If you wish.” 

“When?” 

“Whenever you like.” 

“May I come round to-night then—sometime after 
dinner? I went round to your diggings just now. It 
was the old woman who sent me on here. Extraordinary 
old witch! Does she make you comfortable?” 



47 


The Holiday 

“The place is quite clean,” said Frances. 

“That’s non-committal. What’s the food like?” 

“I don’t suppose you would care for it. It is quite 
plain, but it is good. It suits me all right, and it suits 
my purse.” 

He pounced upon the words. “Then why in heaven’s 
name worry? A little extra holiday never hurt anyone, 
and you have got your sketching.” 

“I can’t afford it,” said Frances. 

“But if you can sell some of your work.” 

“I can’t,” she said. 

“Well, I can for you. It’s the same thing. Look here, 
Miss Thorold! You’re not being reasonable.” 

She turned again and faced him. Her eyes were very 
quiet, quite inscrutable. 

“It is not that I am unreasonble, Mr. Rotherby,” she 
said. “It is simply you—who do not understand.” 

There was stubbornness in his answering look. “I un¬ 
derstand perfectly,” he said. “I know what you are 
afraid of. But if you will only leave things to me, it 
won’t happen. After all, you promised to be my secre¬ 
tary, didn’t you? You can’t seriously mean to let me 
down?” 

“I!” Her eyes widened and darkened in genuine sur¬ 
prise. “I don’t think you can very well accuse me of 
that,” she said. 

“Can’t I ? In spite of the fact that you are threatening 
to throw me over?” There was a bantering note in his 
voice, but his look was wary. 

“I must think of myself,” she said. “You forget I 
have got to make my living.” 

“No, I haven’t forgotten. But there are more ways 
than one of doing that.” His look fell suddenly to the 
trailing honeysuckle at her feet and dwelt there with an 


4 8 


Tetherstones 


odd abstraction. “Surely you can fill in time as I have 
suggested,” he said. “You won’t be a loser in the end.” 

“I like to feel I am standing on firm ground,” said 
Frances Thor old, and returned to her sketch with an air 
of finality as though thereby the subject were closed. 

Montague took out a cigarette-case and opened it, offer¬ 
ing it to her with the same abstracted air. 

She shook her head without looking at him. “No, 
thank you. I’ve never taken to it. I’ve never had time.” 

“It seems to me that you have never had time for 
anything that’s worth doing,” he said, as he took one 
himself. 

“That is true,” she said in her brief way. 

There fell a silence between them. Montague leaned 
upon his elbow smoking, his eyes half-closed, but still 
curiously fixed upon the long spray of honeysuckle as 
though the flowers presented to him some problem. 

Frances worked gravely at her sketch, just as she had 
worked in the Bishop’s room at Burminster a fortnight 
before, too deeply absorbed to spare any attention for any 
interest outside that upon which she was engaged. It 
was her way to concentrate thus. 

Suddenly through the summer silence there came a 
sound—the voice of a little child singing in the lane be¬ 
low—an unintelligible song, without tune, but strangely 
sweet, as the first soft song of a twittering bird in the 
dawning. 

Frances lifted her head. She looked at Montague. 
“Did you leave your car in the lane?” 

“I did,” he said, wondering a little at the sudden 
anxiety in her eyes. 

“Ah!” She was on her feet with the word, her sketch¬ 
ing almost flung aside. “She’ll run into it.” 

“Absurd!” he protested. “Not if she has eyes to see!” 


49 


The Holiday 

“Ah!” Frances said again. “She hasn’t!” 

She was gone even while she spoke, springing for the 
gap through which he had forced his way a few minutes 
earlier, calling as she went ’n tones tender, musical, such 
as he had never believed her capable of uttering. “Mind, 
little darling! Mind! Wait till I come to you!” 

She was gone from his sight. He heard her slipping 
down the bank into the mud of the lane. He heard the 
child’s voice lifted in wonder but not in fear. 

“You are the pretty lady who came to see the cows. 
May I hold your hand?” 

And Frances’ answering voice with a deep throb in it 
that oddly made the listening man stiffen as one who 
listens to undreamt-of music:—“Of course you shall, 
sweetheart. We will walk up the road together and find 
some honeysuckle.” 

The man’s eyes came swiftly downwards to the flowers 
that trailed neglected where her feet had been. So she 
did love honeysuckle after all! With a movement of 
violence half-suppressed he snatched up the pink and 
white blossoms and threw them away. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE CAPTURE 

The description that Frances had given of the lodg¬ 
ing she had found for herself in that little Devon village 
on the edge of the moors gave a very fair impression of 
the hospitality she enjoyed. The place was scrupulously 
clean, and, beyond this, quite comfortless. The fare was 
cottage fare of the very plainest. Her hostess—a stiff- 
limbed old creature, toothless, ungracious—was content 
to bestow upon her lodger the bare necessaries of life and 
no more. 

“I can boil you up some hot water to wash in, but it’ll be 
an extra,” expressed her general attitude towards all 
things. And Frances, being unable to afford the luxury 
here implied, contented herself with the sweet, soft moor¬ 
land water as it came from the pump at the cottage-door. 
In fact, she very often pumped her own in preference to 
accepting the grumbling ministrations of the old woman. 

But she had been happy during that fortnight of en¬ 
forced rest after leaving the Palace. The solitude and 
the boundless leisure of her days had brought healing to 
her tired soul. She was beginning to feel equipped to 
face the world afresh. She was looking forward to tak¬ 
ing up secretarial work again of an infinitely more con¬ 
genial character. Her first instinctive hesitation was 
past. She was prepared to take refuge once more in 

50 


The Capture 51 

professional absorption, resolutely banishing all misgiv¬ 
ings regarding the man who had hidden with her in the 
Bishop’s garden and had taken his stand beside her in 
the Bishop’s presence. 

They had been cast forth,—she thought of it sometimes 
still with the tremor of a smile—they had been driven 
out as Adam and Eve, and neither of them would ever 
enter that garden again. Their intercourse since that 
night had been of the very briefest. Rotherby had ob¬ 
tained from her an address by which he could find her 
at any time. His attitude had been as business-like as her 
own, and she had been reassured. She had agreed to 
take a three weeks’ holiday before entering upon her new 
duties, and now had come this. He had followed her to 
tell her that he would not now need her until the winter. 

It had been a blow. She could not deny it. But already 
busily she was making her plans. He would have to 
understand clearly that she could not wait; but he had 
shown her great kindness, and if he really desired her 
services, she would try to find some temporary work till 
he should be ready. She wondered, as she sorted out her 
sketches in the little bare sitting-room in preparation for 
his coming that evening, if he really did need her, or if 
he had merely obeyed the impulse of the moment and had 
now repented. She recalled his careless gallantry which 
might well cover a certain discomfiture at having placed 
himself in a difficult position, his obvious desire to help 
her still by whatever means that might come to hand. 
Yes, it was impossible to formulate any complaint against 
him. He had been kind—too kind. He had allowed his 
sympathies to carry him away. But they should not 
carry him any farther. On that point she was determined. 
He should see her sketches—since he wished to see them 
—but no persuasion on his part should induce her to 


52 


Tetherstones 


look upon them as a means of livelihood. She would 
make him understand very clearly that she could accept 
no benefits from him in this direction. As she had said, 
she must feel firm ground under her feet, and only by 
a fixed employment could she obtain this. 

So ran her thoughts on that summer evening as she 
waited for his coming with a curious mixture of eager¬ 
ness and reluctance. She marvelled at the kindness of 
heart that had prompted his interest in her. If she had 
been—as she once had been—an ardent, animated girl, it 
would have been a different matter. But she had no 
illusions concerning herself. Her youth was gone, had 
fled by like a streak of sunshine on a grey hillside, and 
only die greyness remained. It was thus that she viewed 
herself, and that any charm could possibly have outlived 
those years of drudgery she did not for a moment sus¬ 
pect. That any part of her character could in any fashion 
hold an appeal for such a man as Montague Rotherby 
she could not, and did not, believe. Pity—pity, alone— 
had actuated him, and he chose to veil his pity—for her 
sake—in the light homage which he would have paid to 
any woman whom he found attractive. Something in the 
situation, as she thus viewed it, struck a humorous note 
within her. How odd of him to imagine that a woman 
of her shrewdness could fail to understand! Ah, well, 
the least she could do was to let him continue his cheery 
course without betraying her knowledge of the motive 
that drove him. She would not be so ungrateful as to let 
him imagine that she saw through his kindly device. 
Only she must be firm, she must stand upon solid ground, 
she must—whatever the issue—assert the independence 
that she held as her most precious possession. Whatever 
he thought of her, he should never deem her helpless. 

There came the click of the garden-gate, and she started 


53 


The Capture 

with a sharp jerk of every pulse. Again, before she could 
check it the hot colour rushed upwards to her face and 
temples. She stood, strangely tense, listening. 

He came up the path with his easy saunter. She knew 
it for the step of a man of the world. None of the vil¬ 
lage men walked thus—with this particular species of 
leisurely decision, unhurried assurance. He strolled be¬ 
tween the line of hollyhocks and sunflowers and spied 
her by the window. 

“Ah! Hullo! May I come in this way?” 

He stepped over the low sill into the room. It was 
growing dusk. The air was extraordinarily sweet. 

“There’s a mist on the moors to-night,” he said. “Can 
you smell it?” 

“Yes,” said Frances. 

She gave him no word of greeting. Somehow the 
occasion was too unconventional for that. Or was it 
merely the manner of his entrance—the supreme confi¬ 
dence of his intimacy with her—that made conventional 
things impossible? He entered her presence without 
parley, because—obviously—he knew she would be glad 
to see him. The breath caught oddly in her throat. Was 
she glad? 

The tension of her limbs passed, but she was aware 
of it still mentally,—a curious constraint from which she 
could not break free. She laid her sketches before him 
almost without words. 

He took them and looked at them one after another 
with obvious interest. “You’ve got the atmosphere!” he 
said. “And the charm! They’re like yourself, Miss 
Thor old. No, it isn’t idle flattery. It’s there, but one 
can’t tell where it lies. Ah, what’s this r'’ 

He was looking at the last of the pictures with an even 
closer interest. 


54 


Tetherstones 


“That is the little blind child at Tetherstones,” she said. 
“It is only an impression—not good at all. I couldn’t 
get the appeal of her—only the prettiness. It isn’t even 
finished.” 

“What, the child you went to in the lane this morn¬ 
ing? But this is clever. You must finish this. You’ve 
got her on the stepping-stones too. She doesn’t cross 
those alone surely!” 

“Oh, yes, she goes everywhere, poor mite. She is just 
seven and wonderfully brave. Sure-footed, too! She 
wanders about quite alone.” 

“Poor kid!” Rotherby laid the sketch aside and turned 
to her. “Miss Thorold, I’ve come for a talk— a real talk. 
Don’t freeze me!” 

She smiled almost in spite of herself, and the thought 
came to her that he must have had a very winning per¬ 
sonality as a boy. Gleams of the boy still shone out now 
and again as it were between the joints of his manhood’s 
armour. 

“Sit down!” she said. • “Sit down and talk!” 

But Rotherby would not sit. He began to pace the 
narrow room restlessly, impatiently. 

“You accused me of letting you down this morning,” 
he said, “and I protest against that. It wasn’t fair. 
You’ve got a wrong impression of me.” 

“I!” said Frances. 

“Yes, you!” He met her surprise with a certain ruth¬ 
lessness. “I know it sounded like the other way round, 
but it wasn’t actually. In your heart you felt I’d played 
you a dirty trick—let you down. Own up! Didn’t you ?” 

She replied with that slight humorous lift of the eye¬ 
brow that was characteristic of her, “I really didn’t put 
it quite like that—even in my heart, Mr. Rotherby. I 
owe you too much for that.” 


55 


The Capture 

He flung round as if at the prick of a goad. “What 
do you owe me? Nothing whatever! Let’s talk sense. 
Miss Thorold! You don’t owe me anything—except per¬ 
haps some sort of reparation for the restless nights you 
have made me go through.” 

Dead silence followed his words, uttered on the edge 
of a laugh that somehow had a dangerous note. He had 
his back to her as he uttered them, but in the silence he 
turned again and came back, treading lightly, with some¬ 
thing of a spring. 

Frances stood quite straight and motionless, with that 
characteristic pose of hers that was in some inexplicable 
fashion endowed with majesty. She did not attempt 
to answer or avoid him as he returned. She only faced 
him very steadily in the failing light. 

“Do you know what I mean ?” he said, stopping before 
her. 

She made a slight movement of negation, but she did 
not speak. She stood as one awaiting an explanation. 

He bent towards her. “Don’t you know what I mean, 
you wonderful woman? Haven’t you known from the 
very beginning—you Circe—you enchantress?” 

His arms came out to her with the words. He caught 
the slim shoulders, and in a moment he had her against 
his breast. 

“Oh!” gasped Frances, and said no more, for he 
pressed her so closely to him that no further words could 
come. 

She did not resist him. Burningly, afterwards, she 
remembered her submission, remembered how, panting, 
her lips met his, and were held and crushed till blindly she 
fought for breath but not for freedom. It all came like 
a fevered dream. One moment she had been a woman of 
the world—a business woman—cold, collected, calm; the 


56 


Tetherstones 


next she a girl again, living, palpitating, thrilling to the 
rapture which all her life she had missed, drinking the 
ecstasy of the moment as only those who have been 
parched with thirst can drink. She was as it were borne 
on a great wave of amazed exultation. That he should 
love her—that he should love her! Ah, the marvel of it 
—and the gladness that was like to pain! 

He was speaking now, speaking with lips that yet 
touched her own. “So now I have caught you—my white 
flame—my wandering will-o’-the-wisp! How dared you 
refuse my flowers this morning? How dared you? 
How dared you?” 

He kissed her between each question, hotly, with a 
passion that would not be denied. And she lay there 
in his arms, quivering, helpless, wildly rejoicing in the 
overwhelming mastery of the great flood-tide on which 
she was borne. 

Her life had been so singularly empty—just a fight 
for bare existence. There had been no time for new 
friendships—old friendships had waned. And now this! 
O God, now this! 

She did not try to answer him. His kisses stayed all 
speech. His arms encompassed her—lifted her. He sat 
down on the little horse-hair sofa in the growing dark¬ 
ness, holding her. And she clung to him—clung to him— 
in the abandonment of love’s first surrender. 


CHAPTER VII 


ROGER 

It was like a dream—yet not a dream. Over and over 
again she marvelled afresh at the wonder of it, lying on 
the hard little bed in her room with the sloping roof, 
watching the misty stars through their long night march. 

They had parted—somehow he had torn himself away, 
she could not remember how. She only remembered that 
after he had gone, he had returned to the window and said 
to her laughing, “Why not come up on to the moor and do 
sacrifice to the high gods with me ?” 

And she had answered, also laughing—tremulously, 
“Oh no, really I couldn’t bear any more to-night. Be¬ 
sides, it is misty—we might be lost.” 

“I should like to be lost with you,” he had answered, 
and had gone away laughing. 

There had been something wild and Pan-like in his 
laugh. It was the laugh of the conqueror, and she tingled 
to the memory of it, thrilling like a delicate instrument 
to the hand of a skilled player. He had waked in her 
such music as none had ever waked in her before. She 
did not know herself any longer. This throbbing, eager 
creature was a being wholly different from the Frances 
Thorold of her knowledge, just as the man who had 
laughed and vanished like Pan into the mist had a per¬ 
sonality wholly apart from that somewhat cynical but 
kindly gentleman who was Montague Rotherby. 

57 


58 


Tetherstones 


What magic had wrought the change in them ? What 
moorland spell was this, holding them as surely as a net 
about their feet ? She was as one on the threshold of an 
enchanted world, afraid not so much of the unknown that 
lay before her as of the desert that lay behind—that 
desert which she had so miraculously quitted for this 
place of amazing gladness. 

Once in the night she arose and went to the little cot¬ 
tage-window since sleep was impossible. It came to her 
there as she stood gazing up at those far dim stars to 
breathe a deep thanksgiving for this strange deliverance. 
But the words she sought to utter would not come. The 
vague mist, floating like smoke, seemed to cling about her 
soul. She stood speechless, and so standing she heard a 
voice, denunciatory, fanatical, speak suddenly within. 

“I tell you to go, because I cannot stop your sinning 
until you have endured your hell and—if God is merciful 
—begun to work out your own salvation.” 

So clearly fell the words upon her consciousness that 
she felt as if they had been uttered by her side. She 
almost turned to see who spoke. Then, remembering, a 
sharp shudder went through her. She shrank and caught 
her breath as though she had been pierced. 

Was this the magic that had caught her—the awful 
magic of temptation? Was there poison in the draught 
which she had drunk with such avidity ? This enchanted 
land to which she had come after weary years of desert 
journeying, was this to prove—her hell? 

As if stricken with blindness, she stumbled back into 
the room and lay down. All her former doubts swept 
over her afresh in a black cataract of misgiving. Love 
her—faded and tired and dull ? How could he love her ? 
What could a man of this sort, rich, popular, successful, 
see in a woman of hers save an easy prey ? She lay and 


59 


Roger 

burned in the darkness. And she had given him all he 
asked in that amazing surrender. She had opened to 
him her very soul. Wherefore? Ah, indeed, where¬ 
fore ? Because he had overwhelmed her with the audacity 
of his desire! For no other reason—no other reason! 
How could this thing be Love ? 

So she lay, chastising herself with the scorpions of 
shame and fear and desolation—because she had dared 
to dream that Love could ever come to her. At last—in 
that terrible vigil—she found words wherewith to pray, 
and in an agony of supplication she made her prayer: 
“O God, keep me from making a mistake! Let me die 
sooner! Let me die!” 

And though no answer came to her then, tears came 
instead and washed the burning anguish away. After¬ 
wards she slept. . . . 

In the morning she awoke to see the sun drawing up 
the mist like a veil from the green earth. All the evils 
of the night were gone. She arose wondering at the emo¬ 
tions that had so torn her a few hours before. After all, 
if she kept her soul with steadfastness, what had she to 
fear ? She viewed the strange event of the previous even¬ 
ing with a curious sense of detachment, almost as if it had 
happened to another person, very far removed from her¬ 
self. She was calm now, calm and strong and no longer 
afraid. The habit of years had reasserted itself. She 
girt herself anew in the armour which till then had 
never failed her. Work was her safeguard as well as her 
necessity. She would waste no further time in idleness. 

After breakfast she set forth on a three-mile tramp 
to the nearest town to buy a newspaper, promising herself 
to spend the afternoon answering advertisements. Her 
way lay by a track across the moor which she had never 
before followed. The purple heather was just coming 


6o 


Tetherstones 


into bloom and the gold of coronella was scattered every¬ 
where about her path. The singing of larks filled the 
whole world with rejoicing. She thought that the dis¬ 
tant tors had never been so blue. 

About a mile from the village, on the edge of a deep 
combe through which flowed the babbling stream of her 
sketch, she came to the farm called Tetherstones, and 
here, somewhat to her surprise, she was joined by the 
dog, Roger. He bounded to her, his brown eyes beam¬ 
ing good fellowship through his shaggy hair, and at once 
and quite unmistakably announced his intention of ac¬ 
companying her. No amount of reasoning or discourage¬ 
ment on her part had the smallest effect upon his 
resolution. Beaming and jolly he refused to pay any 
attention to either, having evidently decided to take a day 
off and spend it in what he regarded as congenial society. 
She found it impossible to hide from him the fact that 
she loved his kind, and he obviously considered her honest 
attempt to do so as a huge joke, laughing whenever she 
spoke in a fashion so disarming that she was very soon 
compelled to admit herself defeated. 

They went on together, therefore, Roger with many 
eager excursions into the heather, till Tetherstones was 
left far behind. Then, at last, Frances, growing weary, 
sat down to rest, and Roger came, panting but still cheery, 
to lie beside her. 

She fondled his beautiful shaggy head with an under¬ 
standing touch. “What a funny fellow you are,” she 
said, “to follow me like this.” 

Roger smiled at her, his tongue hanging between his 
pearly teeth, and laid a damp, podgy paw upon her lap. 
She understood him to express his warm appreciation of 
the company in which he found himself. 

“They’ll think I’ve run away with you,” she said. 


6i 


Roger 

And he shook his ears with a nonchalance that said 
very plainly that it was no concern of his what they 
thought. 

Then there came a tramp of hoofs along the white, 
sandy track, and she saw a man on horseback coming 
towards them through the glare. Roger sat up sharply 
and, gulping, ceased to pant. 

She saw that his eyes were fixed upon the advancing 
horseman though he made no movement to leave her 
side. The thud of the approaching hoofs had a dull fate¬ 
ful sound to her ears. She experienced an odd desire to 
rise and plunge deep into the heather to avoid an en¬ 
counter. But the tenseness of the dog by her side seemed 
to hold her also motionless. She waited with a strange 
expectancy. 

The dazzling sunshine made it impossible for her to 
see what manner of man the rider was until he was 
abreast of her. Then she realised that he was broad and 
heavy of build. He wore a cap drawn down over his eyes. 

The sudden checking of the horse made her start. 
“Roger!” a deep voice said, “What the devil are you 
doing here?” 

Roger started also, and she felt a quiver as of guilt 
run through him. He got up with an apologetic air, and 
stood wagging his funny stump of a tail ingratiatingly. 

It seemed to Frances that even the horse looked apolo¬ 
getic halted there at his master’s behest. 

“Roger!” the new comer said again. Roger’s tail 
dipped and became invisible in the bushy hair of his hind¬ 
quarters. He crept forward with a slinking air as if he 
yearned for a deep hole in which to bury himself. 

The man on horseback waited quite motionless till the 
dog reached his foot, then suddenly he leaned down and 
struck him a stinging cut with his riding-whip. 


62 


Tetherstones 


The dog cried out, and fled to a distance, and Frances, 
her hands gripped in the heather on both sides of her, 
uttered an involuntary exclamation. 

The horseman, preparing to go on, paused. “Did you 
speak, madam ?” he asked, scowling at her from under 
the peak of his cap. 

She collected herself and rose to the occasion. “No! 
There are no words for a thing of that sort,” she said, 
icily contemptuous. 

He put up a hand, ironically courteous, and saluted 
her. She saw the hard line of a very prominent jaw as 
he rode on. 

The dog fell in behind and meekly followed him. 

“What a bear!” said Frances. “I suppose that is the 
owner of Tetherstones. Or—no! Someone said that was 
an old man. Then this must be his son.” 

She arose and pursued her way, a grim sense of amuse¬ 
ment succeeding her annoyance. How curious it was 
of people to go out of their way to be objectionable! 
They so seldom injured anyone except themselves in the 
process. 

She had not thought that a walk across the moors 
would have tired her overmuch, but the day was hot and 
she very soon realised that she would need a considerable 
rest before returning. She had breakfasted early and 
none too bountifully, and she had brought no refreshment 
with her, counting on obtaining it when she reached her 
destination at Fordestown. 

But Fordestown was a long way off, further than she 
had anticipated, and she began after a while to wonder 
if she had done wisely in attempting the walk. She felt 
lonely after Roger had left her. The great spaces of the 
moors had a bewildering effect upon her tired senses. 
The solitude weighed upon her. 


63 


Roger 

Then, after what seemed an endless period of walking, 
she came to a cross-track with no indication as to whither 
the branching by-path led. There was no habitation in 
sight, no sign of life beyond that of the larks singing 
interminably in the blazing blue overhead, no possibility 
of knowing in which direction she ought to turn. 

Her heart began to fail her a little, and she sat down 
again to consider the problem. The whirr of grass¬ 
hoppers arose in a ceaseless hum around her. The distant 
hills swam before her aching vision. She sank deep into 
the scented heather and closed her eyes. 

She had meant to give herself only the briefest rest, 
but she was in a place where Nature reigned supreme, 
and Nature proved too much for her. Her lids were 
sealed almost immediately. The hum of insects became 
a vague lullaby to her jaded nerves. She slipped deeper 
and deeper into a sea of slumber that took her and bore 
her with soft birowings into an ocean of oblivion. She 
slept as a child sleeps—as she had not slept for years— 
the soul as it were loosed from the body—her whole 
being perfectly at rest. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 

Often she wondered afterwards how long that sleep 
would have lasted, if it had been left to Nature to awake 
her. It was so deep, so dreamless, so exquisite in its 
utter restfulness. She never slept thus in the open be¬ 
fore. The magic of the moors had never so possessed 
her. And she had been so weary. All the weariness of 
the weary years seemed to go to the making of that amaz¬ 
ing sleep of hers in the heather. She was just a child 
of Nature, too tired for further effort. She slept for 
hours, and she would have slept for hours longer, but for 
the interruption. 

It came to her very suddenly, so suddenly that it seemed 
to her that the soul had scarcely time to gird itself anew 
in the relaxed body, before the amazing battle was upon 
her. She sprang upright in the heather, gasping, still 
trammelled in the meshes of sleep, defenceless, to find 
the day nearly spent and a curtain of mist surrounding 
her; and, within that curtain, most terribly alone with 
her, she also found Montague Rotherby. 

Her recognition of him came with a choking cry. She 
realized that he had only just reached her, that his coming 
must have called her back from that deep oblivion in 
which she had been so steeped. But that first sight of 
him—alone with her—alone with her—within that 
strangely shifting yet impenetrable curtain—showed her 
64 


The Road to Nowhere 


65 


something which to her waking vision—made keen by 
that long spell of rest—was appalling. She was terrified 
in that moment as she could not remember that she had 
ever been terrified before. 

He bent over her. “Found!” he said and laughed with 
a triumph that seemed to stab her. “I’ve had a long hunt 
for you. Have you been hiding here all day?” 

“No,” she said, through lips that felt strangely stiff, 
compelling her voice with difficulty. “I lost my way. I 
fell asleep. I am just going to Fordestown.” 

“Going to Fordestown! Why, it’s miles away! Why 
didn’t you wait till I came to you? You knew I should 
come.” 

His voice had a caressing quality. It drew her against 
her judgment. Her wild, unreasoning fear subsided 
somewhat. She smiled at him, though still her lips felt 
stiff. 

“I expected to be back by that time,” she said. “I 
started quite early.” 

“But why did you start at all?” he said. 

He was still bending over her. She gave him her 
hands with a slight gesture of appeal to help her up. He 
took them and drew her upwards into his arms. 

Holding her so, in spite of her quick effort for free¬ 
dom, he looked deeply into her eyes. “Tell me why 
you went!” he said. 

She hesitated, trying to avert her face. 

“No, that won’t help you,” he said, frustrating her. 
“Tell me!” 

Unwillingly she answered him. “I had a bad night, 
and I decided—in the morning—that—I had better look 
for work.” 

“Why did you decide that?” he said. 

She made a more determined stand against him. “I 


66 Tetherstones 

can’t tell you. It’s natural, isn’t it? I have always been 
independent.” 

“Till you met me,” he said. 

She summoned her courage and faced him though she 
knew that she was crimson and quivering. “I shall go 
on being independent,” she said, “until we are married.” 

She expected some subtle change of countenance, pos¬ 
sibly some sign of discomfiture, as thus boldly she took 
her stand. But at once he defeated her expectations. He 
met her announcement with complete composure. He 
even smiled, drawing her closer. 

“Oh’ I think not,” he said. “After what happened 
yesterday we won’t talk nonsense of that kind to-day. 
What is the matter, sweetheart? Has someone been 
troubling you?” 

She relaxed somewhat. It was impossible not to re¬ 
spond to the tenderness of his voice and touch. But he 
had not satisfied her; the misgiving remained. 

“Only my own mind—my own reason,” she confessed, 
still painfully seeking to avoid his look. 

“After—yesterday!” he said. 

The reproach of his tone pierced her. She hid her 
face against his breast. “I couldn’t-help it. You must 
make allowances. There has been no time for—love- 
making—in my life.” 

“There’s time now,” he said, and again she heard in 
his voice the note of triumph that had so deeply dis¬ 
quieted her. “It’s not a bit of good trying to run away 
at this stage. You’re caught before you start.” 

“Ah!” she said. 

He held her fast. “Do you realize that?” 

She was silent. 

He held her faster still. “Frances! Put your arms 
round my neck and tell me—tell me you are mine 1” 


The Road to Nowhere 


67 


She shrank, hiding her face more deeply. He had 
lulled her distrust, but he had not gained her confidence. 

“You won’t?” he said. 

“I can’t,” she whispered back. 

He felt for her face and turned it upwards. “You will 
presently,” he said, and bending, kissed her, holding her 
lips with his till she broke free with a mingled sense of 
shame and self-reproach. 

“What is it?” he said, watching her, and she thought 
his face hardened. “You have changed since yesterday. 
Why?” 

She laid a pleading hand upon his arm. Yes, she had 
changed; she could not deny it. But she could not tell 
him why. 

“I think we have been—rather headlong,” was all she 
found to say. 

And at that he laughed, easily, cajoling her. “Well, 
we’ve gone too far to pull up now. Perhaps it will be 
a lesson to you next time, what? But no more of your 
will-o’-the-wisp performances on this occasion, O lady 
mine! We’ll play the game, and as we have begun, so we 
will go on.” 

He kissed her again, and his kiss was almost a chal¬ 
lenge. 

“Don’t you realize that I love you?” he said. “Do you 
think I am going to lie awake all night for you, and then 
not hold you in my arms when we meet?” 

He laughed as he uttered the question, but it had a 
passionate ring. His lean, sunburnt face had a drawn 
look that oddly touched her pity. She was even moved 
to compunction. 

“I am sorry,” she said. “I thought—perhaps—it was 
just—a passing fancy.” 

“My fancies don’t pass like that,” said Montague. 


68 


Tetherstones 


He spoke almost moodily, as if she had hurt him, and 
again her heart smote her. 

“I am beginning to understand,” she said. “But— 
you must give me time. We hardly know each other 
yet.” 

“That is soon remedied,” he said. “I warn you, I am 
not a very patient person. There is nothing to wait for 
that I can see.” 

“Oh, we must wait,” she said. “We must wait.” 

He broke again into that odd laugh of his. “We won't 
wait. Life is too short.” He stooped again to kiss her. 
“You amazing woman!” he said. “Do you really prefer 
stones to bread?” 

She could not answer him. He had her defeated, 
powerless. She had no weapons with which to oppose 
him. But still deep in her heart, the doubt and the won¬ 
der remained. Was this indeed love that had come to her? 
If so, why was she thus afraid? 

Yet she met his lips with her own, for somehow he 
made her feel that she owed it to him. 

“That’s better,” he said, when he suffered her to go 
again. “Now, what are your plans? Are you still want- 
ing to go to Fordestown?” 

She hesitated. “You say it is a long way?” 

“It’s miles,” he said. “You are right out of your way. 
What made you wander up here ?” 

“They told me it was a short cut across the moor,” 
she said. 

He laughed. “Ah! These short cuts! Well, what are 
you going to do?” 

She looked at him. “Do you know—I haven’t had 
anything to eat all day—not since breakfast?” 

“Good heavens!” he said. “You’ve been wandering 
about the moor starving all this time ?” 


The Road to Nowhere 69 

She smiled. His concern touched her. Not for years 
had anyone expressed any anxiety for her welfare. 

“Not wandering about much,” she said. “I got as far 
as this this morning, and then, while I was considering 
which way to go, I fell asleep.” She glanced about her 
uneasily. “Do you think this fog is going to get any 
worse?” 

“Oh no!” he said lightly. “It’s nothing. They often 
come up like this in the evening. But look here! I can’t 
have you starving. We had better make for Fordestown 
after all.” 

“But—is it far?” She still hesitated. “Do you know 
the way?” 

“I know the direction. I can’t say how far it is. But 
it is nearer than Brookside. There is a fairly decent 
inn there. I am staying there myself.” 

“Oh!” she said with relief. “Then if we can only get 
there, you can motor me back to Brookside.” 

“The point is to get there,” said Montague. 

“But you know the direction. Do let us start before 
it gets any worse! I am quite rested.” 

She spoke urgently, for he seemed inclined to linger. 
He turned at once. 

“Yes. You must be famished. This is the way.” 

He drew her hand through his arm with decision and 
began to lead her up one of the sandy tracks. 

The mist closed like smoke about them, and Frances 
felt it wet upon her face. “We seem to be in the clouds,” 
she said. 

“I think we are,” said Montague. 

“You are sure we are going right?” she said. 

He laughed at her. “Of course we are going right. 
Don’t you trust me?” 

Trust him! The words sent a curious sensation 


70 


Tetherstones 


through her. Did she trust him? Had she ever—save 
for that strange, delirious hour last night really trusted 
him? She murmured something unintelligible, for she 
could not answer him in the affirmative. And Montague 
laughed again. 

Looking back upon that walk later, it seemed to her 
that they must have covered miles. It was not easy 
going. The track was rough, sometimes stony, some¬ 
times overgrown. She stumbled often from weariness 
and exhaustion; and still they went on endlessly over the 
moor. Always they seemed to be going uphill, and always 
the mist grew thicker. Here and there they skirted 
marshy ground, splashing through puddles of black 
water, and hearing the sound of running streams close 
at hand but invisible in the ever-thickening mist. 

It began to grow dark, and at last Frances became 
really anxious. They had not spoken for a long time, 
merely plodding on in silent discomfort, when abruptly 
she gave voice to her misgivings. 

“I am sure we are wrong. This path leads to no¬ 
where. ,5 

“It leads to Fordestown,” he declared stubbornly, “if 
you keep on long enough.” 

“I don’t think I can keep on much longer,” she said. 

“I told you it was miles,” said Montague. 

She heard the sullen note in his voice, and her heart 
sank. Progress was becoming increasingly difficult. 
Very soon they would not be able to see the path. 

She stood still suddenly, obedient to an inner urging 
that would not be denied. “Oh, let us go back!” she said. 

He pressed her arm to his side with sharp insistence 
and drew her on. “Don’t be ridiculous! Do you want 
to spend the night in the open moor?” 

“It is what I am afraid of,” she said desperately. “If 


The Road to Nowhere 71 

we go back we can at least find the way back eventually 
to Brookside. But this—oh, this is hopeless!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he said again. “It is just 
possible that we have taken a wrong turn in this infernal 
fog, but it’s bound to lead to somewhere. There are no 
roads in England that don’t.” 

She yielded to him, feeling she had no choice. But 
her alarm was increasing with every step she took. It 
seemed to her that they were actually beginning to climb 
one of the tors! Now and again, they stumbled against 
boulders, dimly seen. And it was growing very cold. 
The drifting fog had turned to rain. Her feet had 
been wet for some time, and now her clothes were cling¬ 
ing about her, heavy with damp. She felt chilled to the 
bone, and powerless—quite powerless—to do anything 
but go whither she was led. 

It was as if her will-power were temporarily in abey¬ 
ance. This man was her master, and she had no choice 
but to obey his behests. She began to move as one in 
a dream, dimly counting her halting footsteps, vaguely 
wondering how many more she would accomplish. 

And then quite suddenly she seemed as it were to 
reach a point where endurance snapped. She pitched 
forward, against his supporting arm. 

“I can’t go—” she cried out—“I can’t go—any 
further.” 

He caught her as she fell. She was conscious of the 
brief physical comfort afforded by the warmth of his 
body as he held her. Then, oddly, over her head she 
heard him speak as if addressing someone beyond her. 
“That settles it,” he said. “It’s not my fault.” 

She knew that he lowered her to the ground, still 
holding her, and began to rub her numbed and power¬ 
less hands. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE LIONS’ DEN 

“From all evil and mischief, from sin, from the crafts 
and assaults of the devil” . . . 

Someone was saying the words. Frances opened her 
eyes upon blank darkness, and knew that her own lips 
had uttered them. She was lying in some sort of 
shelter, though how she had come thither she had no 
notion. The rain was beating monotonously upon a roof 
of corrugated iron. She lay listening to it, feeling help¬ 
less as a prisoner clamped to the wall. And then an¬ 
other voice spoke in the darkness, and her heart stood 
still. 

“That’s right. You’re better. Gad, what a fright you 
gave me! Now do stop raving! You’re only tired and 
a bit faint.” 

“I am not—raving,” she said. “I am only—I am 
only—” Again without her conscious volition she knew 
herself to be uttering those words she had heard: “From 
all evil, and mischief, from sin, from the crafts and 
assaults of the devil—” She paused a moment, groping 
as it were for more, then:—“Good Lord, deliver us!” 
she said, and it was as if her soul were speaking in the 
darkness. 

“Frances!” a voice cried sharply, and she stopped, 
72 


The Lions’ Den 


73 

stopped even her breathing, to listen. “Stop talking that 
absurd rot! Be sensible! Try to be sensible!’’ 

“I am only—praying,” she said. 

“Well, don’t! It isn’t the time for saying prayers. I 
want you to attend to me. You know what has 
happened ?” 

His voice sounded curt and imperious. She peered 
into the darkness, wishing she could see his face. 

“I don’t know,” she made answer wonderingly. “How 
should I know?” 

“I brought you here,” he said. “You fainted.” 

“How stupid of me!” she murmured apologetically. 

“It was rather.” His voice was grim. “But you’ve 
got back your senses, and for heaven’s sake keep them! 
This is just an old cattleshed on the moors and it’s all the 
shelter we shall get to-night.” 

“Oh!” said Frances, and in her voice dismay and re¬ 
lief were strangely mingled. “It was better than the open 
moor. But yet—but yet-” 

He spoke again with a species of humorous rueful¬ 
ness. “Here we are, and here we’ve got to stay! That 
damned fog has defeated us. We can’t hope to move 
before morning.” 

“I wish we had a light,” said Frances. 

She was gradually getting a grasp of the situation, and 
though her body felt oddly heavy and her head strangely 
light, her wits were recovering their customary business¬ 
like balance. 

“I have got a few matches,” said Montague. “Also 
a few cigarettes. Afraid it’s useless to attempt a fire. 
We should only smoke ourselves out—and possibly fire 
the shed as well. The only comfort we have got is a 
little hay, and you are lying on it.” 

“Where are you?” she said. 



74 


Tetherstones 


“Here!” A hand suddenly touched her, and she started 
with involuntary shrinking. A great shivering came over 
her, and for a space she struggled to control her chatter¬ 
ing teeth. 

“You are cold/’ he said. 

“Yes,—dreadfully cold. But never mind! It—it’s 
better than being out in the open, isn’t it? You have 
no idea where we are?” 

“I lost my way,” he said moodily. 

She reached out to him a trembling hand, and realized 
that he was standing propped against the wall beside her. 
He stooped quickly, grasping her cold fingers. 

“Frances, we’ve got to face it. You may as well give 
in to circumstances. We’re both of us helpless.” 

His voice had an odd urgency. It was as if he 
pleaded with her. 

“Oh, I quite realize that,” she said, and she strove to 
force a practical note into her reply. “We’ve been very 
unlucky, but what can’t he cured must be endured. We 
shall come through it somehow.” 

She would have removed her hand, despite the physical 
reluctance to relinquish the warmth of his, but he held 
it fast. 

“You don’t want me to go?” he said. 

“Oh no!” she returned briskly. “I am not so selfish 
and unreasonable as that. We must just make the best 
of it. We must just—just-” 

She broke off. Her teeth were chattering again, and in 
the effort to check them, she forgot the words she was 
trying to utter. 

She felt him bend lower, and found him kneeling by 
her side. “It’s no good offering you my coat,” he said. 
“There’s no warmth in it. Besides, it’s wet through. 
But I’m not going to let you die of cold for all that— 


The Lions’ Den 75 

just for the sake of an idiotic convention. Frances— 
sweetheart—I’m going to hold you in my arms.” 

Fear stabbed her—sharp and agonizing. “Oh no!” she 
said, and drew herself back from him. “Not here! Not 
now!” 

Her hand remained locked in his, but he paused. 

“Why not here—and now?” he said. 

She gasped her quivering answer. “Because—because 
—I am not sure if I have done right in—in letting you 
make love to me. I have not been sure—all day.” 

“You don’t love me?” he questioned. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t—possibly—know 
yet.” 

“But you knew yesterday,” he said. 

“Ah, yesterday!” The word came almost with a cry. 
“I was mad yesterday,” she said. 

“Why mad?” he reasoned. “My dear, listen to me! 
Here we are—far away from everywhere—miles away 
from civilized society. What does it matter—what can 
it matter—if we throw aside these idiotic conventions just 
for one night? You know in your heart that it doesn’t 
matter one jot.” 

“It does matter,” she gasped back painfully, still striv¬ 
ing vainly to free the hand he held so closely. “It does 
matter.” 

“That means you don’t trust me,” he said. 

“I would if I could,” she made desperate answer. “But 
—but-” 

“But—” he echoed grimly, and let her go. 

She heard him get up from his knees, and breathed a 
sigh of thankfulness. 

A moment later there came the rasp of a match and a 
sudden glare in the darkness. Her eyes turned instinc¬ 
tively, though dazzled, to the light. She saw his face, 



76 


Tetherstones 


and again instinctively she shrank. For in the eyes that 
sought her own there burned a fire that seemed to con¬ 
sume her. 

He was lighting a cigarette. He looked at her above it, 
and his look held a question she dared not answer. Again 
a terrible shivering caught her. The light went out, and 
she covered her face. 

The man spoke no further word. He smoked his ciga¬ 
rette in the darkness till presently it was finished, and 
then he threw down the glowing end and ground it under 
his heel. 

The silence between them, like the darkness, was such 
as could be felt. Only the drip, drip of the rain sounded 
—oddly metallic, like the tolling of a distant bell. 

Frances sat huddled against the wall, not moving, not 
able to move. Her heart was beating with dull, irregular 
strokes, and her fear had died down. Perhaps she was 
too exhausted to be actively afraid. A sense of unreality 
had descended upon her. She had the feeling of one in a 
dream. Though from time to time violent shivers caught 
her, yet she was scarcely aware of them. Only now and 
then the cold seemed to pierce her like a knife that reached 
her very soul. 

And when that happened she always found herself re¬ 
peating in broken phrases the prayer which no conscious 
effort brought to her lips. “From all evil and mischief—• 
from sin—from the crafts—and assaults—of the devil 
—” Sometimes she thought it was the Bishop reciting 
the words, but she always realized in the end that she was 
saying them herself, and wondered—and wondered— 
why she said them. 

Her impressions grew blurred at last. She must have 
dozed, for suddenly—as one returning from a long dis¬ 
tance—she started to the sound of her name, and realized 


The Lions’ Den 


77 

Montague once more—Montague whom she had for- 
gotten. 

With a great start she awoke to find herself in his 
arms. She made an instinctive effort to free herself 
but he held her to his breast, and she was too numbed 
to resist. 

“I can’t stand it,” he said. “I can’t stand by and let 
you die. Frances, you are mine. Do you hear? You 
are mine. Whatever comes of it, I’m not going to 
let you go again!” 

She heard the rising passion in his voice. It was like 
a goad, pricking her to action. For a few seconds she 
lay passive, waiting as it were for strength. All her 
life she was to remember the strange calm of those wait¬ 
ing moments. She was as one ship-wrecked and in 
appalling danger, yet in some fashion aware of rescue 
drawing near. 

And then quite suddenly deliverance came; she knew 
not how nor stayed to question whence. She realized 
only the presence of a power beyond her own, uplifting 
her, succouring her. She put away the arms that sought 
to hold her, and even as she did so, there came a sound 
beyond the dripping of the rain—the sound of a child’s 
voice singing a little tuneless song to itself out in the 
darkness. 

Frances gasped and uttered a cry. “Is that you, child? 
Is that you?” 

The song ceased. A child’s voice made reply. “Is 
that the pretty lady who gives me flowers?” 

They could not see her, but she was close to them. She 
had entered the shed and stood before them. 

“I dreamt I would find you here,” she said. “It was 
Daniel in the lions’ den at first, then it was you. Why 
are you in here?” 


78 Tetherstones 

Frances was on her feet. The man behind her never 
stirred. 

“I have lost my way, little darling,” she said. “How 
did you get here in the dark?” 

“I don’t know the dark,” said the child. “What is 
dark?” 

Frances groping, touched and held a small figure stand¬ 
ing before her. “Can you take me back, Rosebud?” she 
said. 

A tiny hand, full of confidence, found and clasped her 
own. “I will take you to Tetherstones,” said the child. 

They went out together, hand in hand, into the drip¬ 
ping darkness. 


PART II 

CHAPTER I 

THE STRANGERS 

How long she wandered with the child, stumbling 
through the darkness, Frances never knew. All that she 
realized and that with a deep thankfulness, was that her 
guide was quite sure of the way. 

They spoke but little during the journey, only now and 
then the child’s voice, sweet and confident, broke the 
silence with words of encouragement. 

“I’m so glad I found you. . . . We’re nearly there. 
. . . Granny has a big fire that you can get dry by. 
. . . And you can come and sleep in my bed. I can 
sleep with Aunt Maggie. . . . Are you very tired? We 
shall soon be there.” 

And then at last there shone a glare of light in the 
darkness, and Frances roused herself to speech. 

“What is that light?” 

“That is Tetherstones,” said the child. “That is 
home.” 

Ah, home 1 Somehow the words brought the hot tears 
to Frances’ eyes. She was weak with the long struggle, 
with the mingled fear and pain and exhaustion of the 
79 


8o 


Tetherstones 


day. She longed—very desperately she longed—for 
some safe shelter where she could sink down, and this 
child spoke to her of home. She could not check her 
tears. 

“Never mind!” said the voice at her side. “Don’t 
cry! We are just there. Here is the gate!” 

Frances fumbled at it, but the child opened it. They 
went through together and trod the smooth stones that 
led to the house. 

The glare dazzled Frances. She went as she was led, 
making no effort to guide herself. They came to the 
porch. She heard the rustle of falling rain upon thatch, 
and there came to her nostrils the aromatic scent of burn¬ 
ing wood. A great quiver went through her. This was 
Tetherstones—this was home. 

The door opened before her. “Come in!” said the 
child. “We’ll find Granny.” 

They entered, and then it seemed to Frances that the 
light became so intense that she could bear it no longer. 
She uttered a gasping sound, and fell against the wall. 
There seemed to be a great many people in front of her, 
a confusion of voices, and out of the indistinguishable 
medley she heard a man utter a terrible oath. Then 
there came a crash, whether within the room or within 
her brain she knew not. She only knew that she fell, 
and falling was caught by strong arms that held her 
up, that lifted her, that sustained her, in all the dreadful 
tumult in which her senses swam. She turned as one 
drowning, and clung to that staunch support. 

“Bring her to the fire, poor thing!” said a woman’s 
voice, soft with pity. “Mind how you lift her, Arthur! 
That’s right, Oliver. You lend a hand!” 

Helpless in every limb, she felt herself borne forward, 
and was aware of a great glow from an open fire. They 


81 


The Strangers 

laid her down before it, and she knew that she was safe. 
But still, as one who fears to drown, she clung to one 
of those strong arms that had lifted her. 

“Look at that!” said another voice compassionately. 
“Just like a frightened child! Where did you find her, 
Ruthie?” 

“Up in the old shed near the Stones,” said the child. 
“I expect she was frightened too. She was lost.” 

“Let’s give her some hot milk!” said the motherly 
voice that had first spoken. “Move a bit, Arthur! I 
can’t get near her.” 

“I can’t move.” It was another voice speaking—a 
man’s voice, short, decided. “Give me the cup! I’ll see 
what I can do.” 

And then Frances felt the rim of a cup against her 
lips. 

She drank—at first submissively, then hungrily. Her 
free hand came up to support the cup, and her eyes 
opened. She looked into a man’s eyes—the hard, steady 
eyes of Roger’s master. 

“Oh!” she said weakly. “It is you!” 

“There now! She knows you, does she?” It was not 
Roger’s master who spoke, but another man beyond her 
range of vision. “That’s funny, eh, Arthur? You who 
never look at-” 

“Shut up!” said Roger’s master, briefly and rather 
brutally. “Get out of it, Oliver! Look after the old 
man!” 

He held the cup again to Frances’ lips, and she drank 
until she drained it. Her eyes remained wide open, fixed 
upon those other eyes, black-browed and dominant, that 
had surveyed her so insolently that morning. 

A quivering sigh went through her. “I shouldn t— 
have come here,” she said. 



82 


Tetherstones 


He handed the cup with an imperious gesture to some¬ 
one she could not see. “You're quite safe anyhow,” he 
said. “There's nothing to frighten you.” 

His voice was deep and very resolute. It had the stern 
ring of a man accustomed to hard fighting in the arena of 
life. She wondered a little even in that moment of doubt 
and uncertainty. Somehow he did not seem to fit his 
surroundings. He made her think of a gladiator of 
ancient Rome rather than a farmer in the depths of 
peaceful Devon. 

“I shouldn't—have come,” she said again, speaking 
with difficulty. “I am sorry.” 

But still her fingers clung to the rough cloth of 
his coat like the numbed fingers of one who fears to 
drown. 

“There's nothing for you to be sorry for,” he said. 
“You're welcome to shelter here as long as you will.” He 
spoke abruptly over his shoulder. “Speak to her, Mother! 
She’s scared out of her life.” 

“Poor child!” said the woman’s voice. “And no 
wonder—out there alone in the fog! Who is she, I 
wonder? Perhaps she will tell us presently.” 

The voice was refined. It had a kindly ring, but it 
sounded tired—too tired for any very poignant feel¬ 
ing. Yet it comforted Frances. It was a homely voice. 
With a great effort she braced herself for coherent 
speech. 

“I am so sorry,” she said, “to intrude on you like 
this. I am a visitor here—lodging with Mrs. Trehearn 
at Brookside. My name is Frances Thorold.” 

She heard the child’s voice in the background. “Aunt 
Maggie, you know the lady. She paints pictures, and she 
watched you milk the cows. Don’t you remember?” 

“Why, yes, of course!” The fresh tones of the rough- 


83 


The Strangers 

haired girl took up the tale. “Of course I remember! 
We’ll have to get her undressed and to bed, Mother. 
She’ll die of cold in those wet things.” 

They came about her in a crowd, as it seemed to 
Frances’ confused senses, but Roger’s master kept them 
back. 

“Wait!” he said. “Get a bed ready first! Get hot 
blankets and brandy! She’s chilled to the bone. Make 
up the fire, Milly! You, Dolly, light a fire upstairs! 
Elsie, get the warming-pan! Lucy and Nell, go and draw 
some water!” 

He issued his orders with a parade-like brevity that 
took instantaneous effect. The crowd melted magically. 
And still Frances clung to that solid supporting arm as 
if she could never bear to let go. 

Suddenly, it seemed to her that she was alone with 
him. He bent over her and spoke. 

“Tell me ! What has frightened you so on the moor?” 

His look compelled an answer. Even against her will 
she would have made it, but a violent shivering fit took 
her and speech became impossible. He grasped an arm 
of the old settle on which she lay and dragged it nearer 
to the fire. 

“Don’t be afraid!” he said. “You’re safe enough here. 
Ruth!” 

He raised his voice slightly. The child came and stood 
beside him—a small child, beautifully made, her sweet 
face upturned like the face of a flower that seeks the sun. 
Her eyes were always closed, sealed buds that no sun 
would ever open. 

The man did not look at her. He was closely watch¬ 
ing Frances. 

“Why did you go to the Stones to-night?” he said. 

“I had a dream,” said the child. 


8 4 


Tetherstones 


“Go on! What did you dream?” The words were 
peremptory but the voice was gentle. Even in that mo¬ 
ment Frances noted the difference of tone. 

There was a momentary pause, then the child spoke, 
her face uplifted like the face of a dreamer. 

“I dreamt first about Daniel in the lions’ den, and 
then it turned into someone up by the Stones—someone 
who was lost and frightened—and praying for help. So 
I went to see.” 

“Weren’t you afraid?” the man said. 

“I? Oh no! There was nothing to frighten me. I 
knew the way. Besides, God was there,” the child said 
simply. “It was quite safe. Is the lady better now?” 

“She is getting better.” The man reached out and 
grasped the slender shoulder nearest to him. “Come and 
hold her hand!” he said. 

“May I? Won’t she mind?” The small fingers 
clasped Frances’ trembling ones. “You are not lost 
now,” she said softly. “You are found.” 

Somehow Frances found her hold transferred. The 
man rose from his knees. The child nestled down by her 
side. A sense of peace stole upon her. She knew that 
she was safe. She closed her eyes to the glare of the fire 
and lay still. . . . 

What happened to her afterwards she never clearly 
recalled. She was in the hands of strangers who yet in 
some inexplicable way were friends. They waited upon 
her, tended her, succoured her with every comfort, till 
at last the awful shivering passed. She drifted into 
sleep. 

It was a strange sleep of inexplicable happenings—a 
fevered jumble of impressions, ideas curiously mingled. 
Daniel in a place of lions—or was it devils?—that was 
oddly called “The Stones”! Daniel, lost and very fright- 


The Strangers 85 

ened, praying for help! And later the coming of an 
angel to his deliverance! 

Yes, she remembered that part of it very clearly. “My 
God hath sent His angel. . . .” She heard again the 
voice of a little child singing in the darkness—a child 
who lived in utter darkness yet knew not the meaning of 
the word. She called to memory the closed eyes that no 
sun would ever open, and like a voice within her soul 
there came to her the words : “You are not lost now. You 
are found.” 

No, she was not lost any longer, but she was ill, ter¬ 
ribly ill. There came a time when sleep no longer held 
her and pain took possession—dreadful intervals when 
breathing was agony and rest a thing impossible. It 
stretched out into days of suffering when her very soul 
seemed to be lacerated with the anguish that racked her 
body, days when she lay in the cruel grip of a torture 
such as she had never imagined in all the hardships of 
her life. Sometimes during those days, it seemed to her 
that death was very near. She stood on the brink of an 
abyss unfathomable and felt her soul preparing as it were 
for that great leap into the unknown. And it had ceased 
to appall her, as is the merciful way of nature when the 
body can endure no more. There was nought to fear in 
Death. It was only pain—-earthly pain—that had any 
power to torment her. 

And that power was lessening, hourly, hourly lessen¬ 
ing. She was as a prisoner chained to a rock, yet waiting 
for a sure deliverance. Utter weariness possessed her, a 
weakness so complete that there were hours together when 
she would lie, conscious but too exhausted for thought 
or feeling, and with a dim wonder watch the strangers 
about her bed. 

They were very constantly about her—those strangers. 


86 


Tetherstones 


She came to know them by name though she hardly ever 
spoke to them except to whisper a word of thanks for 
some service rendered. They would not let her speak 
from the very outset. They always hushed her into 
silence whenever she attempted it. And—since speech 
was very difficult—she came at last to acquiesce dumbly 
in all that they did. 

As the pain lessened and the weakness increased, she 
grew to lean upon them more and more. There was al¬ 
ways someone with her, springing up at her slightest 
movement to help her. Maggie—the rosy, rough-haired 
girl who milked the cows—spent two hours each morn¬ 
ing and evening after milking-time in ready service upon 
her, or sitting working by her side. They divided them¬ 
selves, the six girls, into special watches of four hours 
each in the twenty-four, each girl serving two hours at a 
time by day or by night. Frances got to know the time 
by these watches, for they never varied. Milly, the 
second girl, used to come to her in the afternoon and in 
the very early hours of the morning. She liked Milly, 
who was sensitive and anxious to please, not very strong 
or very capable, but always full of sympathy and never- 
failing attention. Elsie, the third girl, was of the boister¬ 
ous open-air type. She also had a night-watch and she 
kept it faithfully, though she did a man’s labour on the 
farm and only rested for the two hours in the middle of 
the day that she spent in Frances’ room. 

“I’m used to broken nights,” she used to say stoutly. 
“Maggie and I always come in for them in lambing¬ 
time.” 

Then there was Dolly—a girl of considerable charac¬ 
ter and decision—Nurse Dolly—Frances used to call her, 
for she was the one of them all whose touch was skilful 
and who had any real aptitude for nursing. Lucy and 


87 


The Strangers 

Nell were the youngest—girls of twenty and nineteen. 
Their watches came consecutively and they used to 
whisper a great deal in the sick-room when one of them 
relieved the other. It was mainly by their means that 
Frances learned how her condition went, and in a vague 
fashion it amused her to know. But somehow she never 
felt vitally interested. 

When Nell—who always had hay-seed sown in her 
chestnut hair—told Lucy in hissing undertones that the 
doctor said she had no strength to make a stand and 
would probably go very suddenly in the end, Frances, 
still chained to her rock above the abyss, wondered what 
either of them would do if that amazing moment came 
while she was on guard. Lucy would certainly be fright¬ 
ened. She had a shy and gentle way with her. But 
Nell—Nell was extremely young and full of ideas. She 
would probably do something highly original before she 
quitted her post to find Dolly, as, Frances heard, had been 
arranged among them. Nell was a jolly girl, but she 
had a schoolboy’s rudeness for all who came her way, 
and a funny boyish fashion of regarding life that ap¬ 
pealed to Frances immensely. 

There was someone on the farm, she learned from the 
girls’ talk, for whom everyone had the profoundest con¬ 
tempt. Lucy and Nell always spoke of him as “the 
Beast.” But who the Beast was and why he was always 
thus described did not transpire. 

There was also Arthur, Roger’s master, who, she 
gathered, knew how to assert his authority even over 
the sometimes mutinous Nell, and commanded her un¬ 
bounded respect in consequence. 

Then there was Oliver—“Oliver Twist” they called 
him. He was evidently a humorous person and his comic 
sayings often caused fits of suppressed giggles behind 


88 


Tetherstones 


Frances’ screen. Frances used to train her ears to catch 
the joke, but it always eluded her, the point smothered in 
laughter, after which Nell would come round to her, 
looking contrite, and beg her to try and get a little sleep, 
in the same breath dismissing Lucy brusquely from the 
room. Yes, Frances liked Nell. She was so delightfully 
and naively human. 

But most of all she loved little Ruth of the blind eyes, 
and Ruth’s granny—the patient, tired woman with the 
mother’s voice who had pitied her on that first evening. 
They were curiously alike, these two, in their patience, 
their gentleness, their serenity. They brought an atmo¬ 
sphere of peace into her room—a sense of rest that none 
of the sisters possessed. They always came to her to¬ 
gether, and Ruth’s granny would speak tenderly in her 
tired voice, telling her she would be better soon. 

She never stayed long, but Frances grew to look for 
her coming with a certain eagerness, so deep were the 
knowledge and the understanding in the grave kindly 
eyes. She had a feeling that this woman, with her white 
banded hair and sorrow-lined face was many years 
younger than she seemed. The blind child plainly wor¬ 
shipped her. “My dear Granny” was the fond term by 
which she always spoke of her, and it was evident to 
Frances that she filled the place of mother in the child’s 
heart. She was the petted darling of all the sisters, but 
this elderly woman who petted her least of all was the 
beloved one of her heart. 

Little Ruth brought her a flower every day, and she 
would stay on after her granny had gone, curling up be¬ 
side her on the bed, very still and quiet, sometimes whis¬ 
pering a little, always holding her hand. Frances loved 
to have her there. The child’s presence was as balm to 
her spirit Even in her worst hours it comforted her to 


89 


The Strangers 

feel her near. She was the angel of her deliverance. 
Whenever that dreadful memory of evil assailed her, 
she wanted to clasp the little hand in hers, and always it 
brought her comfort. “My God hath sent His angel. 


CHAPTER II 
Roger's master 

The doctor—whose name was Square—was a bluff 
old countryman who was accustomed to ride miles over 
the moor every day on his old white mare, Jessie, in pur¬ 
suit of his calling. A picturesque figure was Silas Square, 
immensely big and powerful, gruff and short of speech, 
but with a heart as soft as a woman's. He came every 
morning and evening during the worst period of Frances’ 
illness, Nurse Dolly always accompanying him, and his 
strong kindly presence never failed to encourage, even 
at the time when Nell’s whispered confidences told 
Frances that he believed the end to be near. He did not 
talk much in the sick-room. His remedies were old- 
fashioned and drastic, but he always in some fashion 
conveyed a sense of confidence to his patients. She 
generally managed to smile at him when he came. 

“You’ve got some pluck,” he said to her once, when 
he had watched the application of a poultice that caused 
her acute pain. 

And she smiled at him agaJh bravely, though she could 
not speak in answer, so tightly was her endurance 
stretched. 

And then one day he looked at her with eyes that 
fairly beamed their congratulation. “You’ve done it!” 

90 


9i 


Roger’s Master 

he said. “You’re through the worst, and, madam, you’re 
the bravest woman it has ever been my lot to attend!” 

She valued these words immensely. They were so 
spontaneous, and he was very obviously not a man given 
to flattery. 

Thenceforward his visits dropped to once a day, but 
he always gave her a sympathy that amazed her with its 
intuition. His kindly concern for her welfare never 
failed, even when he had finally loosened her chain, and 
drawn her back from the abyss into safety. 

But he would not hear of her being moved. “You’ve 
had a very stiff time,” he said. “And you’ve got to rest. 
You’re in excellent hands. The Dermots all love having 
you. So why worry?” 

“Because they don’t know me. Because I am a 
stranger,” she made answer at last, when her strength 
had returned sufficiently for her to feel the difficulties of 
her position. “I can make no return to them for their 
kindness. I have got to make my living. I have no 
money.” 

“Is kindness ever repaid by money?” he said, with a 
smile in his shrewd eyes. “You can’t go yet. I won’t 
sanction it. That heart of yours has got to tick better 
than it does at present—a long way better—before you 
think of earning your living again.” 

“Then I must go to a hospital,” said Frances desper¬ 
ately, “I can’t go on in. this way. I really can’t.” 

“You’ll do as you’re told,” said old Dr. Square with a 
frown. “And you’ll take cream—plenty of it—every 
day.” 

Then he went away, and Frances was left to fume 
in solitude. 

“You’re fretting,” said Nurse Dolly severely when 
she took her temperature a little later. “That’s very 


92 Tetherstones 

wrong of you and quite unnecessary. Now you will have 
to take a sedative.” 

She did not want the sedative. She was approaching 
that stage of convalescence when fretting is almost a 
necessity, and she fought against any palliative. But 
Dolly would take no refusal, and in the end, with tears 
of weakness, she had to submit. 

“There now!” said Dolly practically, when she had 
won the day. “What a pity to upset yourself like that! 
Now don’t cry any more! Just go to sleep!” 

She went to sleep, cried herself to sleep like a child 
that has been slapped, and slept deeply, exhausted, till late 
into the night. Then she awoke to find with great sur¬ 
prise the child Ruth curled up in the big bed beside her. 
The fair head was actually on her pillow, the flower-like 
face close to her own. 

“Why, darling, little darling!” whispered Frances. 

Ruth’s hands, soft and loving, clasped hers. “I’m not 
asleep,” she whispered back. “Do you mind me in bed 
with you?” 

“Mind!” said Frances, gathering her close. “As if I 
could!” 

Ruth gave a faint sigh. “I’ve been lying awake to ask 
you. I came because of a dream I had. Elsie wanted 
to send me away, but I wouldn’t go. So she put me into 
bed with you while you were asleep. I’m glad you don’t 
mind.” 

“Go to sleep, my Rosebud!” said Frances very ten¬ 
derly. “I wouldn’t part with you for all the world.” 

She found out later that little Ruth was accustomed to 
spend her nights promiscuously among her young aunts. 
She chose her own place of rest, like a wandering 6crap 
of thistledown, disturbing none. They always welcomed 
her fondly wherever she went, but none ever coerced or 


93 


Roger’s Master 

persuaded her. She lived her own life; they had no time 
to spend upon her, and she was curiously independent of 
them all. She went in and out quite fearlessly, seeing 
her visions behind those sealed lids, a child of strange 
spirituality to whom grief was unknown. 

She brought her simple comfort to Frances that night, 
and they slept together in absolute peace. It was the best 
night that Frances had had throughout her illness. 

In the morning she felt better. She and the little girl 
lay murmuring together in the misty sunshine of the 
dawn. 

“I am going to the Stones to-day,” said Ruth. “I 
wish you could come.” 

“The Stones!” Memory pierced Frances, and she 
shrank a little involuntarily. But: “Tell me about the 
Stones!” she said. 

“I go and play there,” said Ruth. “Some people are 
afraid of them. I don’t know why. The fairies play their 
pipes there, and I lie and listen. And sometimes, when 
they think I am asleep, the biggest stones talk. But I 
don’t know what they say,” she added quaintly. “It 
isn’t our language at all. I daresay the fairies would 
understand, but they always run away and hide when the 
stones begin.” 

“What are the Stones?” said Frances. 

“Oh, just stones, the same as God made when He made 
the earth. They stand in a big circle. I don’t know, why 
He put them like that, but they have been so ever since 
the world began. I expect He had a reason,” said the 
child. “Don’t you?” 

“Yes, dear,” said Frances gently. “And you like to 
go there?” 

“Yes,” said Ruth. She hesitated a moment as one to 
whom a subject is sacred; then: “My mother went to 


94 


Tetherstones 


heaven from there,” she said. “So of course God must 
come there sometimes. I hope He’ll come there some day 
when I’m there.” 

“Wouldn’t you be afraid?” said Frances. 

“Afraid of God? Oh no! Why should anyone be 
afraid of God? He loves us,” said the child. 

Frances kissed the upturned face that could not see 
the sun. “Bless you, little darling!” she said. “Is there 
anyone who wouldn’t love you, I wonder?” 

Ruth left her soon after, and Nurse Dolly came in, 
brisk and efficient, to prepare her for the day. 

“I am glad to see you better,” she said. “But you 
mustn’t sit up yet—not till you have had three days with¬ 
out a temperature. The doctor says so.” 

“I will be very good,” Frances promised. “But do 
you think I might have my bed pushed near the window ? 
I should so love to look out.” 

Dolly considered the request judicially for a moment 
or two. She was recognized commander-in-chief in the 
sick-room. “We’ll see about it,” she said. “But it’s a 
heavy bed to move and has no castors. Still—we’ll see.” 

She smiled upon Frances and proceeded with her toilet 
with her usual ready deftness. 

Then she departed, and Frances heard her cheery voice 
calling for Oliver. 

Through the window she heard a man’s voice reply. 
“Oliver’s gone to put the pigs in the cart for market. 
What do you want him for?” 

“Oh, it’s all right; you’ll do,” said Dolly, still brisk and 
cheery. “Just come along and help me to move Miss 
Thorold’s bed! She has a fancy for lying in the sun¬ 
shine.” 

There was no answer to that save a grunt, and a mo¬ 
ment later the sound of a pipe being tapped against the 


95 


Roger’s Master 

side of the step. Frances felt a quick flush rising in her 
face. She wished with all her heart that she could have 
restrained Dolly’s well-meaning arrangement as she heard 
the sound of a man’s tread upon the stairs. 

Dolly re-entered, looking well pleased with herself. 
“Here’s Arthur come to move you,’’ she said. “He’s 
strong enough.’’ 

Arthur entered behind her. His great frame with its 
broad shoulders filled the narrow doorway. He looked 
straight at her, and she thought his look was oddly low¬ 
ering, even challenging. 

“Come in!” said Dolly. 

Frances said nothing. She was tongue-tied. 

He came forward into the room, moving with the care¬ 
less strength of conscious power. He paused at her bed¬ 
side. 

“Are you feeling better?” 

She recovered herself with an effort. “I am much 
better, thank you,” she said, and held out her hand. 

He paused an instant as if she had taken him by sur¬ 
prise, Then abruptly he gripped and held the out¬ 
stretched hand. His face changed magically. He smiled 
at her, and his smile was good to see. It took years from 
his appearance, belying the iron-grey of hair that had 
once been as black as his brows. 

“I’m glad of that,” he said. “I hope they are doing 
all they can for you.” 

“They are doing far too much,” Frances said. “I feel 
so ashamed lying here.” 

“Why ashamed ?” he said. 

She coloured again, painfully, under his eyes. “I have 
never been in anyone’s debt before,” she said. “And this 
—this is more than I can ever hope to repay.” 

His smile passed, and again his face was hard with the 


96 


Tetherstones 


hardness of the fighter. “There is no debt that I can 
see,” he said. “We are all at the mercy of circumstance. 
If it comes to that, we owed it to ourselves to do what 
we could for you.” 

It was brusquely spoken, but his look, grim though it 
was, seemed to her to hold a hint of friendliness. The 
dog Roger, who had entered behind him, came nosing up 
to the bedside and she slipped her hand free to fondle 
him. There was something in this man’s personality that 
embarrassed her, wherefore she could not have said. 

Roger acknowledged her attention with humble ef¬ 
fusion, glancing apologetically towards his master the 
while. 

“You are very kind to put it like that,” she said at 
last, as he stood immovably beside her. “But I can’t bear 
to be a burden upon anyone—especially—especially-” 

“Especially what?” he said. 

She answered with difficulty. “Especially people who 
have to work as hard as you do.” 

“People in our walk of life, do you mean?” he said, 
and she heard the echo of a sneer behind the words. 

“Arthur, you are not to make her talk,” said Dolly 
severely. “She had a temperature yesterday all through 
over-excitement and fretting, and it throws her back at 
once. Will you please move the bed and go?” 

She spoke with her habitual decision, and Frances was 
aware of a strong resemblance between the brother and 
sister as Arthur turned to comply. She herself was near 
to tears, such was her weakness and distress of mind, 
and while her bed was being moved across to the window 
she could not look at either of them. But when the move 
was at length satisfactorily effected and she could gaze 
forth over the dewy sunlit fields, she commanded herself 
sufficiently to utter a low word of thanks. 



97 


Roger’s Master 

He came back to her then, and stood beside her. “You 
are most welcome at Tetherstones,” he said. “Please 
don’t talk of debts and burdens! They don’t come into 
the reckoning here.” 

His tone was restrained, but it held an unmistakable 
note of apology. She lifted her eyes in amazement, but 
he had already turned away. He went out of the room 
with the free, deliberate swing with which he had entered, 
and she heard him descending the stairs with Roger 
pattering behind. 

“For goodness’ sake, never take any notice of Arthur!” 
said sensible Dolly, as she whisked about the room setting 
it in order. “He always was a bear, and the circum¬ 
stances he talks about haven’t been such as to have a very 
taming effect on him.” 

Then she knew that by some means Dolly had obtained 
that semi-apology in order to keep her patient’s tempera¬ 
ture normal. 


CHAPTER III 


THE BEAST 

From the day that her bed was moved to the window, 
Frances began to regain her strength. 

It came back to her slowly, with intervals of pain and 
weariness, when she felt as if she were making no pro¬ 
gress at all, but it returned, and her indefatigable nurses 
gradually relinquished their vigil. 

“You can go downstairs and sit in the sun if you want 
to,” said Dr. Square one morning. 

And she thanked him and promised to make the effort. 
There was a corner of the old-fashioned garden that she 
could see from her window in which she had often longed 
to sit, but now that the time had come, all desire for 
change had left her. She lacked the energy for en¬ 
thusiasm. 

“That’s because you are weak still,” said Dolly. “Never 
mind! I’ll arrange everything. We’ll get the couch out 
of the parlour. I can make it very comfortable with some 
pillows and a rug. It’s nice and cool under the cedar. 
Don’t you fret now! Just leave it all to me!” 

She went off briskly to make her arrangements, and 
Frances heard her from the garden calling Maggie to 
come and help her with the couch. 

Maggie came, the hair as usual flying all around her 
sunny face. She was accompanied by the young man 
they called Oliver, who carried a stable-fork and had evi- 

98 


The Beast 


99 


dently just come from the farmyard. Maggie was look' 
ing unusually serious, Frances discovered, as the three 
of them paused at a corner of the old house for dis¬ 
cussion. 

Presently Maggie’s clear tones reached her. “Don’t 
you be a silly girl, Dolly! You’ve no right to risk it. 
You keep her where she is!” 

Dolly for once seemed undecided, and Oliver, with 
a faintly rueful smile on his comical countenance, ranged 
himself on Maggie’s side. 

“Don’t let’s have a shindy for goodness’ sake!” he said. 
“We’ve kept him quiet till now, but I won’t answer for 
him much longer. The beast has got to break out some 
time. I told Arthur so this morning.” 

“Oh, but this is nonsense!” declared Dolly. “You can 
keep him in the farmyard surely. I know I could.” 

“Well, you’d better go and do it then, that’s all,” said 
Maggie. “For he’s on the- ramp this morning, and no 
mistake. I can’t pacify him.” 

There followed some words in a lower tone which did 
not reach Frances at her window, and then the group 
dispersed, Maggie and Oliver departing in the direction 
of the farmyard, and Dolly entering the house. 

Frances was left alone for some time, and presently 
coming to the not unwelcome conclusion that she was to 
remain in her room that day, she began to fall asleep. 
The day was sultry and very still. She heard vaguely the 
summer sounds that came through her window. The at¬ 
mosphere was peaceful beyond words. The occasional 
lowing of a cow in the meadow beyond the garden where 
the chattering stream ran, the cooing of the pigeons on 
the roof of the old barn, and the cry of the wheeling 
swallows that nestled in the eaves, the singing of a thou¬ 
sand larks above the heather-covered moors, all came to 


100 


Tetherstones 


her like a softly-coloured dream. She felt wonderfully 
soothed and at rest, too tired to speculate as to the mean¬ 
ing of that half-heard discussion below her window, con¬ 
tent to drowse the time away as long as Nurse Dolly 
would permit. 

The breeze, laden with the scent of heather, came in 
upon her like a benediction, playing lightly with her hair, 
closing her weary lids. She sank more and more deep¬ 
ly into repose. 

Then, just when the spell seemed complete, there came 
a sudden and violent interruption, so startling that she 
sprang up in a wild alarm, not knowing whence it came. 

It began like the bellow of a bull—a terrific sound 
that sent all the blood to her heart; then she realized that 
it came from somewhere in the house, not the farmyard, 
and sat there palpitating, asking herself what it could be. 

It went on for many seconds. Sometimes it seemed to 
her strained senses like the shouting of an angry man, 
then its utter lack of articulation and intelligibility con¬ 
vinced her that it must be some animal gone mad and 
broken loose. In the midst of the din she thought she 
heard a woman’s voice crying frantically for help, and 
then there came a frightful crash, and all sound ceased, 

Frances sank back upon her pillows, completely un¬ 
nerved. Something terrible had happened. Of that she 
was certain. But what ? But what ? Why was the house 
so deadly quiet after the uproar—that tumult that had 
made her think of devils fighting together? This mys¬ 
terious Beast of whom the two girls whispered so freely— 
was it he who had broken loose, trampling wide de¬ 
struction through that wonderland of peace? And had 
he escaped after that final crash, or was he dead? She 
longed to know, yet dreaded to find out. 

Her limbs felt paralysed, and her heart was beating 


The Beast 


IOI 


with slow, uneven strokes. A catastrophe of some kind 
had taken place. Of that she felt certain. Had one of 
the six sisters been hurt? That wild cry for help—she 
was sure now that she had heard it—which girl was it 
who had been in such sore distress? And had the help 
come in time ? 

Ah! A sound a last! A step upon the stair! The 
door opened with quiet decision and Dolly entered. She 
looked exactly as usual, her face perfectly calm and un¬ 
clouded. 

“I am sorry, : ” she said, '‘but I am afraid it is a little 
too cold for you in the garden to-day. The wind has 
changed.” 

Frances gave a gasp, between relief and incredulity. 
For the moment words were beyond her. 

“Is there anything the matter?” said Dolly. 

With an effort Frances made reply. “I thought— 
something had happened—such a strange noise—it woke 
me.” 

Dolly looked at her with a kindly smile. “Ah, you’ve 
been dreaming,” she said practically. “People often get 
nightmares after a bad illness. It’s just weakness, you 
know.” 

She came and felt Frances’ pulse. “Yes, I think you 
are well enough. I have got a letter for you here. Mrs. 
Trehearn sent it up this morning.” 

She gave an envelope into Frances’ hand, but Frances 
only stared at her blankly. 

“Well?” said Dolly after a moment. “Don’t you want 
to read it?” 

“Thank you,” Frances said, recovering herself. 

Dolly smiled again upon her and went to the door. 
“One of the girls will be in with your cocoa directly. I 
must go down and help Mother with the bread.” 


102 


Tetherstones 


She went, still unruffled, serenely sure of herself. But 
Frances, who at first had been almost bewildered into 
imagining that she had actually dreamed the disturbance 
below, lay back again with a feeling akin to indignation. 
Did Dolly really think that she was to be deceived so 
easily? 

She suddenly remembered the letter in her hand, and 
looked down at it. A man’s writing sprawled across the 
envelope, and again her heart gave a jerk. What was 
this ? 

No word from Montague Rotherby had reached her 
since little Ruth had led her to Tetherstones on that night 
of darkness. She had been too ill to think of him till 
lately, and*now in her convalescence she never voluntarily 
suffered her thoughts to wander in his direction. She 
had come to regard the whole episode of her acquaintance 
with him in the light of a curious illusion, such an il¬ 
lusion as she would always remember with a sense of 
shame. With all her heart she hoped that she would 
never see him again, for the bare memory of him had 
become abhorrent to her. Here in the wholesome security 
of Tetherstones she felt that she had come to her senses, 
and she would never again be led away by the glitter of 
that which was not gold. 

And so, as she looked at the letter in her hand, there 
came upon her such a feeling of revolt as had never be¬ 
fore possessed her. It was as though she grasped a ser¬ 
pent, and she yearned to destroy it, but dared not. 

There came again to her as a sombre echo in her soul 
the memory of the Bishop’s words: “. . . Until you have 
endured your hell, and—if God is merciful—begun to 
work out your own salvation.” 

But had she yet endured her hell? Of the hours spent 
with Rotherby on the moor before the coming of the child 


The Beast 


103 


her memory was vague. A long wandering, coupled with 
a growing fear, and at the last an overwhelming sense of 
evil that she was powerless to combat were the only im¬ 
pressions that remained to her. But with a great vivid¬ 
ness did she remember how she had surrendered herself 
to him the evening before, and burned with shame at the 
memory. No, she never wanted to see him again, and 
she longed to destroy his letter unread. The very touch 
of it was horrible to her. 

But something stayed her hand. Something called 
within her—a mocking, elusive something that taunted 
her courage. What was there in a letter to frighten her ? 
If she were sure of herself—if she were sure of herself— 
She tore open the envelope with a gesture of exasperation. 
Of course she was sure of herself! 

“Circe, my beloved!” So the note began, and before 
her eyes there swam a mist. No man in the whole world 
had ever called her beloved before! She gripped herself 
firmly, nerving herself for the ordeal. This was not Love 
—this was not Love! This was an evil that must be 
firmly met and cast out. But ah, if it had been Love! 

Resolutely she read the letter through. It was written 
from the inn at Fordestown. “I lost you on that night 
of fog, but I have found you again, and I have been 
waiting ever since. They tell me you are better, but I 
can’t meet you among strangers. When will you come 
to me? Come soon, Circe beloved! Come soon! 

“I am yours, M. R.” 

She looked up from the letter. So he was waiting for 
her still! Somehow she had thought that he would not 
have deemed it worth his while. A curious dazed feeling 
possessed her. He was waiting for her still! The ordeal 
was not over yet. How was she going to face it? 


104 


Tetherstones 


There came a knock at the door—Nell’s boyish knock. 
She entered, carrying a tray with cocoa and cream upon 
it. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I hope you haven’t 
been wanting it very badly.” 

Frances crumpled the letter in her hand. She looked 
at the girl and saw that Nell’s usually rosy face was pale. 

“Is anything the matter, Nell?” she said. 

Nell’s chin quivered at the question. “Oh, there’s been 
a frightful row,” she said. “But I mustn’t tell you any¬ 
thing about it. Arthur would be furious if he knew.” 

“You needn’t be afraid of that,” said Frances. “He 
won’t know.” 

“Thank you,” the girl said, and dried her eyes. “But 
I can’t tell you all the same. It wouldn’t be fair. You 
don’t know the beast’s ways, and it’s a good thing you 
don’t. Please don’t ask me anything—or I shall say too 
much! I know I shall.” 

“My dear, I don’t want you to tell me anything against 
your will,” Frances said kindly. 

“No, it isn’t that,” Nell said. “But I don’t want you 
to think you ought to go. We’ve been so glad to have 
you. We’ve loved looking after you. But there’s never 
any peace—and never will be so long as Arthur—” She 
broke off abruptly. “Oh, I’d better go. I’m making a 
muddle of things, and there’ll be a worse row if he finds 
out.” 

She left the room precipitately, and Frances was again 
alone. She closed her eyes to think. Something in Nell’s 
confused words had given her a shock. 

So they wanted her gone! That was what it amounted 
to. She had outstayed her welcome, and she must go. 
The thought of all the kindness they had showered upon 
her sent a pang to her heart. How good they had been 


The Beast 


105 

to the unwelcome stranger within their gates! And all 
the while there had been no peace at Tetherstones because 
of the black-browed master who wanted her gone. 

No peace at Tetherstones, and how nobly they had 
striven to keep it from her! Ah well, she knew now— 
she knew now! 

Her hand clenched unconsciously, and she became 
aware of the letter she held. A great wave of feeling 
went through her. Her eyes were suddenly full of tears. 
Ah, if it had been Love that called her! If it had been 
Love! 


CHAPTER IV 


REBELS 

Two days later, Frances went out into the garden. She 
leaned upon Dolly’s arm, for she was very weak, and 
Lucy came behind, carrying rugs and cushions. They 
settled her on a couch under the great cedar-tree that 
spread its branches over the lawn, and there little Ruth 
came and nestled beside her while the two elder girls 
went away. 

“When you are well enough,” said Ruth, her sweet face 
upturned to the chequered sunlight, “I would like you to 
come to the Stones with me.” 

“When I am well enough, sweetheart,” said Frances, 
“as soon as I can walk, that is, I am going away.” 

“Right away?” said the child. 

“Yes, darling. Right away. I have stayed too long, 
much too long, as it is.” 

“I would like you always here,” said Ruth. 

Frances pressed her to her side in silence. 

It was a perfect summer morning. From across the 
field that bordered the old garden there came the babble 
of the stream. There was a line of sunflowers along the 
red^brick wall, and below them the blue of delphiniums 
that brought to mind the Bishop’s garden. The warm 
scent of sweet-peas filled the air. Some distance away, 
106 


Rebels 


I0 7 


Nell’s sunbonnet was visible, dipping among the green. 
She and Lucy were gathering peas, and their careless 
chatter came to Frances where she lay. The peace of the 
place rested upon it like a benediction. 

“You will come with me to the Stones before you go, 
won’t you?’’ said Ruth. 

It was hard to refuse her. “Perhaps, darling,” she 
said gently. 

There came the tread of a horse’s hoofs on the cobbles 
of the yard. “That is Uncle Arthur,” said Ruth, and freed 
herself from Frances’ encircling arm. 

“Are you going?” Frances asked. 

“I shall come back,” she said. 

With perfect confidence she left the shade of the cedar- 
tree and moved through the hot sunshine that bathed the 
lawn. Frances watched her wonderingly. She did not 
run, but she went quickly over the grass, and never 
faltered when her feet reached the gravel-path. Unerr¬ 
ingly the little blue-frocked figure found the gate that 
led into the yard, and disappeared beyond the wall. 
Frances breathed a sigh. The place seemed empty with¬ 
out her. Some minutes passed, and the child did not 
return. She began to grow drowsy, and was actually on 
the verge of slumber when a rustling sound close at hand 
suddenly recalled her. She came to herself with a sharp 
start. 

The rustling ceased immediately, but she had an acute 
sense of being watched that sent a strange uneasiness 
through her. She made an effort to raise herself. 

Her heart was throbbing fast and hard, and she was 
conscious of intense weakness, but she managed to drag 
herself into a sitting position and to turn her head in the 
direction whence the sound had come. 

At first she perceived nothing, for a screen of nut- 


io8 


Tetherstones 


trees that bounded an orchard beyond the garden effec¬ 
tually concealed everything else from sight. Then, as 
though drawn by some magnetism, her eyes became 
riveted. She saw two other eyes peering at her through 
the leaves, and vaguely discerned a figure crouched and 
motionless, a few yards from her. 

The blood rushed to her heart in a great wave of appre¬ 
hension. There was something ominous in its utter still¬ 
ness. She felt like a defenceless traveller who has made 
his couch all unwittingly on the threshold of a wild beast’s 
lair. 

She lay very still, not moving, not daring to breathe. 

Suddenly from across the lawn she heard the deep 
tones of a man’s voice. She turned her eyes swiftly in 
the direction whence it came and, with a throb of mingled 
relief and embarrassment, saw Arthur Dermot crossing 
the grass towards her, little Ruth holding his hand. She 
glanced back swiftly again into the green of the nut-trees, 
but the space whence those eyes had glared so fixedly at 
her was empty. Without a sound the watcher had gone. 

An acute wave of reaction went through her—an 
overwhelming sense of helplessness. She sank back upon 
her cushions, weakly gasping. The sunlight swam before 
her eyes. 

“Miss Thorold!” said a voice. 

She looked up with an effort, seeing him through a 
mist. “I am quite all right. Just—just a passing faint¬ 
ness! It is nothing—really nothing!” 

She heard herself uttering the words, but she could not 
lift her voice above a whisper. At the touch of a quiet 
hand laid upon her own, she knew she started violentlv. 

“It has been too much for you, coming out here,” he 
said. 

“I am quite all right,” she assured him again trem- 


Rebels 109 

ulously.. “I am only sorry—to have given—so much 
trouble.” 

“That’s not the way to look at it,” he said. 

She felt his fingers close up on her wrist and wondered 
a little, for there was something very quieting in his 
touch. 

“You musn’t attempt too much at a time,” he said. 
“Square told me so only two days ago. You are not 
wanting to leave us yet, are you?” 

The direct question, coming from him, took her by 
surprise. Her vision was steadying, but an odd flutter 
of agitation still possessed her. She did not know how 
to answer him for the moment; then the memory that he 
wanted her gone came upon her, and she braced herself 
to reply. 

“I must go—yes. I have been here much too long as it 
is.” 

His fingers left her wrist, but he still stood above her 
motionless, looking straight down at her, yet not as if he 
watched her, but rather as if he debated something with 
himself. 

“May I ask a question?” he said suddenly. 

She felt herself colour. There was something unex¬ 
pected about this man. She wondered why he embar¬ 
rassed her so. She tried to smile in answer to his words 
though his expression was grave to sombreness. “If it 
isn’t too hard a one,” she said. 

“It’s only this,” he said, in his quiet, rather ponderous 
fashion. “Have you anywhere to go to—if you leave 
us?” 

“Oh, that!” said Frances, and knew she had betrayed 
herself before she could formulate her reply. “Why, yes, 
—of course I have.” 

“Why ‘of course’ ?” he said. 


no 


Tetherstones 


She hesitated. “Because—well, every woman has 

somewhere to go to. I have—a brother.” 

“A brother?” he said. 

She found herself explaining further as if under com¬ 
pulsion. “Yes, in the North,—a business man. He would 
take me in.” 

“Have you any intention of asking him to?” Some¬ 
how the question stung her. It was so direct, so unerring, 
like the flick of a whip-lash. She dropped her eyes before 
his look. “I can do so,” she said with pride. 

“Do you intend to?” he insisted. 

She did not answer. Before that straight regard she 
could not lie. 

He waited a moment or two, then to her surprise he 
sat down upon the grass by her side. “Ruth,” he said to 
the blind child standing silently beside him. “Go to the 
house and find my tobacco-pouch! Maggie is in the 
dairy. She will know where it is.” 

Ruth went with instant obedience, and Arthur Dermot 
took off his cap and laid it on the grass. 

“Now, Miss Thorold,” he said, “I am going to ask 
you another question.” 

He spoke with the authority of a man not accustomed 
to be gainsaid, and again that odd quiver as of apprehen¬ 
sion went through her. She lay in silence, waiting. 

When he spoke again, she knew he was looking at her, 
but she did not meet his look. 

“I want to know,” he said, “what it was that scared 
you so up at the Stones the night you came to us.” 

“Ah!” She made a quick movement of protest. “I 
can’t tell you that,” she said. 

“You don’t want to tell me,” he said. 

“I can’t tell you,” she said again. 

He was silent for a space, but she was conscious of 


Rebels 


hi 


his eyes still upon her, and she had an urgent desire to 
escape from their scrutiny. They were so intent, so un¬ 
sparing, so full of resolution. 

“Someone was up there with you/’ he said suddenly. 

She clenched her hands to check the swift leap of her 
heart. “I don’t think you have any right—to press me 
like this,” she said, her voice very low. 

“No right Whatever,” he agreed, and in his quiet re¬ 
joinder she caught an unexpected note of relief. “I knew 
you had had a fright, and the Stones have a bad name 
hereabouts. I wondered what bogey had frightened you. 
But apparently it wasn’t a bogey this time.” 

He smiled a little with the words and she felt the ten¬ 
sion relax. She lifted her eyes and met a gleam of 
friendliness in his. 

“No,” she said. “It wasn’t a bogey.” 

“Perhaps you don’t believe in them,” said Arthur 
Dermot. 

She hesitated, remembering the eyes that had glared at 
her through the nut-trees, and then wondering within 
herself if they had been a dream. He went on with 
scarcely a pause. 

“Whether you do or not, I shouldn’t go to the Stones 
again in the dark if I were you. It’s not a healthy spot.” 

“But the child goes!” she said in surprise. 

“The child!” He lifted his brows. “The child is dif¬ 
ferent,” he said briefly. “The child goes everywhere.” 

His tone did not invite comment. She wondered and 
held her peace. 

After a moment he went on, his jaw set in the fighting 
fashion she had come to associate with him. “All this is 
beside the point, though you’ve satisfied me in one par¬ 
ticular. Now, Miss Thorold, to return to the charge! 
Why must you go from here before you are fit?” 


112 


Tetherstones 


“I think you know why,” she said. 

“But if you have no one to go to—” he said. 

“I am going to work,” said Frances, with decision. 

“What is your work?” he asked. 

She answered him without reserve, for his manner had 
undergone a change. “I am a typist. I have been secre¬ 
tary to the Bishop of Burminster.” 

“Burminster!” he repeated the name sharply. “What 
is his name?” 

“Dr. Rotherby.” 

“Ah!” She saw his face twist suddenly, as if at a 
spasm of pain. “That man!” He ground the words be¬ 
tween his teeth. 

“Yes, that man! Do you know him?” 

She asked the question with a certain hesitation, but he 
answered it immediately. “I knew him once—before 
he came to Burminster. What is he like now? Did he 
treat you decently?” 

“He never treats anyone decently,” said Frances. 

“You quarrelled with him?” He looked at her sharply. 

“Yes. I quarrelled with him,” she answered with sim¬ 
plicity. “I think he is the hardest man I have ever met.” 

Arthur Dermot was silent. He picked up his cap and 
began to turn it in his hands, moodily meditative. 

“Well,” Frances said, after a moment, “that is a closed 
chapter now. I am looking out for another post.” 

“They are not very easy to find, are they?”’ he said. 

The indomitable courage that Montague Rotherby had 
admired in her sounded in her reply. “Of course they 
are not easy. That’s just the best of life. We’ve got to 
work for everything worth having.” 

“Some of us have to work for what isn’t,” he said. 

“Yes. I’ve done that too,” she answered. 

He lifted his eyes abruptly to hers, dark eyes that 


Rebels 


113 

seemed to her to hold a curious protest. “And you’ve 
found it worth while ?” he said. 

She countered the question. “Have you?” 

He shook his head. “I didn’t say I’d done it.” 

“But you know what it feels like,” she said. 

He smiled at that. “You are very shrewd. Well, I 
have done it. But I don’t see any results—any decent 
results. I never shall see any.” 

“Does one ever really get results before the work is 
done?” said Frances. 

“I don’t know.” He dropped his eyes again moodily, 
and she found her own resting upon the silvery gleam of 
his bent head. “Life can be pretty damnable,” he said, 
“most particularly to those who have a sense of duty.” 

“It is more damnable if we rebel,” said Frances 
quietly. 

“You speak as one who knows,” he said. 

“Yes. I do know.” She uttered the words with con¬ 
viction. “I have been a rebel. But that is over. I am 
going back now to work in the furrows—if a place can 
be found for me.” 

He frowned at her words. “Those infernal furrows! 
AVe plough our very souls into the soil! And to what 
end? Of what use?” 

“So you are a rebel too!” said Frances, with the sus¬ 
picion of a smile. 

He threw her his sudden, challenging look, and she 
thought he was angry. But in a moment, sombrely, with 
eyes downcast, he made answer. “Yes, I am a rebel too.”. 

There fell a silence between them that was curiously 
sympathetic. Frances reflected later that it was that 
silence that banished all her former embarrassment. She 
knew when he spoke again that it would not be as 
a stranger. Somehow they had ceased to be strangers. 


Tetherstones 


114 

He looked up at her again at length. “Miss Thorold, 
I want to ask you something, and I don’t know how to 
put it. I’ve lived among clods too long to express my¬ 
self with much delicacy. Will you make allowances for 
that?” 

She met his look with frankness. “You do not need to 
ask me that,” she said. 

“Thank you.” His eyes held hers with a certain 
mastery notwithstanding the humility of his address. “I 
have no intention of being offensive, I assure you. But 
I know—I can’t help knowing—that you have come 
through a pretty bad passage lately. I don’t want to ask 
anything about it. I only want to lend a hand to help 
you back to firm ground. Will you let me do this ?” 

“I have already accepted too much from you,” she said. 

His look hardened. “I know. So you think. But 
you only see one point of view. I want you to realize 
that there is another. And if you leave Tetherstones now, 
well, you won’t have done all you might towards lessening 
what I believe you regard as an obligation.” 

“What do you mean?” she said. “I thought you 
wanted me to go.” 

“You thought wrong,” he returned with finality. 
“There is room for you here, and no reason whatever 
why you should go back to old Mrs. Trehearn, who is 
utterly unfit to look after you. Square says it would be 
madness. I beg you will not contemplate such a thing 
for a moment.” 

He spoke with a force that he did not attempt to con¬ 
ceal, and she heard him with a strange mixture of surprise 
and doubt. She could not understand his insistence, but 
at the back of her mind she was oddly conscious of the 
fact that she lacked the strength to combat it. 

Instinctively she sought to temporize. “It would be 


Rebels 


115 

quite impossible for me to stay on here indefinitely. You 
have all been much too kind to me already, and I couldn’t 
—I really couldn’t.” 

“Wait!” he said. “I haven’t suggested your doing that. 
I know you wouldn’t. What I do suggest is that you 
should stay here to convalesce while you are looking about 
for another post. Can’t you do that as easily here as 
with your brother in the North for instance?” 

She smiled a little at his words, but she shook her head. 
“I can’t go on living on your kindness, and I have so 
very little money left. You must understand how impos¬ 
sible it would be.” 

“I don’t understand,” he said doggedly. “You are a 
woman, and a woman has got to be protected when she is 
at the end of her resources. If you really want to make 
any return, you can do the farm accounts for Milly. She 
never had any aptitude for figures. But for heaven’s 
sake don’t talk of going until you are well! I won’t Hear 
of it.” 

There was little logic in the argument and more than a 
little dogmatism; but for some reason Frances found her¬ 
self unable to combat the point further. He was evidently 
determined that she should stay, and she was too tired 
for further resistance. 

“We will talk of this again,” she said gently. “Mean¬ 
while, I am very, very grateful to you, and—should like 
to help with the farm accounts if I may—while I am 
here.” 

“Thank you,” he said. 

He got to his feet with the words. She thought he was 
going to take her hand, then suddenly she saw him 
stiffen, and realized that they were no longer alone. 

She raised herself to see the bent figure of an old man 
coming towards them over the grass. 


CHAPTER V 


MR. DERMOT 

“My father!” said Arthur Dermot. 

The old man had reached them. He stood, leaning on 
a knotted stick, looking at her. Again she marvelled, for 
it was the face of a scholar—a dreamer—that she be¬ 
held. It had the grey hue of one who seldom moves in 
the sunshine. The eyes were drawn as if they did not see 
very clearly or were continually looking for something 
beyond their range of vision. His hair was snowy white. 
She thought he must be very old. 

“Is this our visitor from the moors?” he asked, in a 
feeble tenor voice that somehow stirred her compassion. 

“Yes,—Miss Thorold.” Arthur’s reply was curt, al¬ 
most as if he resented the old man’s presence. His whole 
attitude was uncompromising. 

“I am very pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Dermot 
courteously addressing Frances. “I was so grieved to 
hear of the unfortunate result of your adventure. I trust 
you are now nearly restored to your normal health?” 

“I am much better,” Frances said. “I have been telling 
your son how very, very grateful I am for all the kind¬ 
ness that has been shown me here.” 

“Not at all—not at all,” said Mr. Dermot. “It has been 
a great pleasure to us all to be of any service to you. You 
are a stranger in this part of this world, I hear?” 

“Yes. I came here for a rest. It was foolish of me 
116 


Mr. Dermot 


117 

to get lost on the moor,” said Frances, smiling ruefully. 
“I shall never do that again.” 

“Ah! It must have been a very unpleasant experience. 
It is strange that you should have been found at the 
Stones.” The tired old face reflected her smile. “There 
is a tradition hereabouts that the devil walks there at 
night. You did not meet him by any chance?” 

“No,” Frances said. “I did not meet him. Curiously 
enough, I have never even seen the Stones. I did not 
know they were there. The night was so dark and 
misty.” 

“It is a very interesting spot,” said Mr. Dermot. “A 
Druidical circle—according to some—though others be¬ 
lieve it to be the result of a volcanic upheaval many thou¬ 
sands of years ago. I myself held the former theory. 
There are certain marks which in my opinion can only 
have been made by iron staples. This supports the cur¬ 
rent belief that Druidical victims were chained there 
previous to sacrifices. Hence the name of Tetherstones.” 

He uttered the word deliberately, with a smile towards 
his son, who stood on one side moodily fidgeting with the 
riding-whip he held. 

“What a ghastly idea!” said Frances. 

“It is somewhat gruesome certainly, but it holds con¬ 
siderable interest for the student. If you are at all 
attracted by this type of research I shall be very pleased 
to conduct you to the Stones one day and to point out 
all the features which in my opinion tend to support this 
theory. My son Arthur,” again he smiled, “has no use 
for relics of any description. He is too busy tilling the 
ground to give his attention to the study of mere stones.” 

“Too busy grinding his bread from them!” put in 
Arthur with a cynical twist of the lips. “Miss Thorold 
will not be equal to a climb to the Stones for some time 


n8 Tetherstones 

yet. And I doubt if they would interest her very greatly 
when she got there.” 

“Indeed they would interest me,” Frances said. “I 
have always been attracted by the study of old things. I 
hope Mr. Dermot will one day be kind enough to show 
me what he has just been describing.” 

“With pleasure—with pleasure,” said the old man, evi¬ 
dently gratified by her sympathy. “Sunset is a very 
favourite time for seeing them. The evening shadows 
are very beautiful up there.” 

“Little Ruth has been telling me about them,” Frances 
said. 

“Ah! The child! The little blind child who lives 
with us! Yes, yes, of course, the child!” The old man’s 
voice was suddenly vague. He frowned a little as one 
who seeks to capture an elusive memory. “It is strange 
how little her infirmity hampers her,” he said, after a 
moment. “I sometimes think she has an inner vision that 
serves her more effectually than physical sight. The brain 
of a blind person must be a very interesting study.” 

“She seems wonderfully happy,” Frances said. 

“Yes, yes, she is always happy—like—like—another 
child I used to know.” Old Mr. Dermot’s eyes took a 
sudden pathetic look. “I lost that child,” he said. “There 
are a great many others—a great many others; but she 
was the darling of them all.” He turned with sudden 
querulousness upon the younger man standing silently 
by. “Why are you waiting here? Why don’t you go 
back to the grinding of your stones?” 

“I am waiting for Ruth,” his son made quiet rejoinder, 
without the movement of a muscle. “I have sent her to 
fetch something.” 

Mr. Dermot’s fine mouth curved satirically. “My son 
likes to be waited upon,” he observed to Frances. “When 


Mr. Dermot 


119 

you are well enough, he will make use of you too. We 
all have to work for him. He is a hard taskmaster.” 

Frances smiled. “I shall be only too glad to be of use 
to any of you,” she said. “I am very much in your debt 
at present.” 

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!” he returned paternally. 
“We do not talk of debts at Tetherstones. Nor do we 
let. our visitors work. Unless,” he smiled back at her 
with a kindliness that won its way to her heart, “you 
would like to help me perhaps. I am writing a book on 
the Stones.” 

“Miss Thorold is not well enough to do anything at 
present,” said Arthur with brief decision. “We must not 
worry her. Remember, she is an invalid, and she must be 
treated as such.” 

“Oh, but I am much stronger,” Frances said quickly, 
for it hurt her to see the sudden animation fade from the 
grey old face. “I should love to help you if I could. Do 
you think I can?” 

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Dermot, and she was sur¬ 
prised by an odd hopeless ring in his voice. “A great 
many have tried to help me, but it is a very difficult mat¬ 
ter, and no one has succeeded yet.” 

“You must let me try,” Frances said gently, with the 
feeling that she was comforting a child. “I should like 
to try.” 

She uttered the last words with a glance towards 
Arthur and was surprised by the sternness of his expres¬ 
sion. He was not looking at her, but at the old man who 
stood leaning on his stick with his faded blue eyes gazing 
sadly before him. 

“You may try if you like,” said Mr. Dermot. “But 
my moments of inspiration are getting rare. Yet I should 
like to have finished that book when I come to die. It is 


120 


Tetherstones 


good to leave something 'behind to mark where one fell.” 

The dreaminess of tone and words smote upon her 
senses like a knell. Again she tried to find some comfort¬ 
ing words, but they were checked by the sight of Ruth 
coming across the grass in her light, confident fashion. 
They all watched her, as it were by common consent. She 
was singing to herself, her little tuneless song. 

“Strange!” said the old man suddenly. “They say that 
blind birds always have the sweetest notes/’ 

He moved to meet the child, and she put out her hand 
to him with a smile. 

“Oh, Grandpa, are you back again? I am so glad you 
are back.” 

“Are yott glad, little one?” He stooped to kiss the 
upturned face. “Have you missed the old man all this 
time ?” 

“I like it best when you are here,” she answered. 
“We all do. Shall we go for a walk now, Grandpa? My 
dear Granny said I might go to the Stones. I want to 
gather some giant harebells for Miss Thorold.” 

“May I have my pouch?” said Arthur. 

She had it in her hand. She turned and gave it to him. 
“And there is a letter for Miss Thorold Aunt Maggie told 
me to bring out. Old Mrs. Trehearn has just brought 
it.” 

“A letter!” said Frances, and felt her heart jerk upon 
the word. 

Silently Arthur handed it to her. One glance at the 
address was enough. She could not control the swift 
tremor that went through her as she murmured her 
thanks. 

“And Dr. Square is here,” said Ruth. “He is drinking 
elder-flower wine in the kitchen. He told me to say he is 
just coming out to see Miss Thorold.” 


Mr. Dermot 


121 


“Then we will go,” said Mr. Dermot, turning towards 
the couch with a courteous gesture. “Miss Thorold, I 
hope I have not tired you. You are very pale. Give Dr. 
Square my compliments, Arthur! Tell him I am back 
again and feeling much better. Good-bye, Miss Thorold! 
When next I have the pleasure of seeing you, I shall be 
bringing you my book to read.” 

He went, Ruth treading lightly by his side, noiseless 
and dainty as a scrap of thistledown. 

Arthur had not stirred from his post by the foot of the 
couch. He stood there massively, filling his pipe. And 
Frances lay, breathing quickly, her letter unopened in her 
hand. 

Suddenly the man’s eyes looked across at her, straight 
and challenging. “Aren’t you going to read it?” he said. 

She quivered at the abrupt question. She knew that 
she could not open that letter in his presence. 

He realized the fact instantly, and she saw an odd 
gleam of triumph in his eyes. He turned and picked up 
his cap. 

“All right. I’m going. But don’t forget—whatever he 
has to say—you’ve promised to stay here for the present!” 

He was gone with the words, striding away towards 
the house, leaving her oddly disconcerted and unsure of 
herself. 

Yes, she had promised to stay. At the bidding of this 
man whom she scarcely knew, she had yielded the point 
and she knew that he would keep her to it. His attitude 
was wholly incomprehensible to her, convinced as she was 
that he had wished her gone. But in his taciturn, un¬ 
gracious fashion he had somehow made it impossible for 
her to go. She wondered, as she watched him depart, if 
he were pleased—or otherwise—with his morning’s work. 
Even with his last words vibrating in her mind, she 


122 


Tetherstones 


greatly doubted if he had acted in accordance with his 
own inclination. She knew he had meant to be kind, but 
was it under pressure perhaps from someone else—Dolly, 
his mother, or the old tired man his father, who had evi¬ 
dently but just returned to the farm after a prolonged 
absence? It was impossible to tell. She was bound to 
suspend judgment. And meantime—meantime that sec¬ 
ond letter from Montague Rotherby was yet unopened in 
her trembling hand. 




CHAPTER VI 


MAGGIE 

It was still unopened when Dr. Square came out of 
the house with Dolly, and at his approach she pushed it 
behind a cushion. 

Whether he noted any agitation on her part or not she 
could not say, but he was very emphatic in his orders to 
her to rest, and impressed upon Dolly the necessity for 
absolute quiet. Then he departed, and, before she could 
open her letter, Milly came out with her work and a chair 
and sat down beside her with the evident intention of re¬ 
maining. Milly was the silent one of the family, a shy, 
diffident girl who shared Ruth’s adoration for her mother, 
but had little in common with the rest. She was stitching 
at a flannel shirt for Arthur, and she worked steadily 
without lifting her eyes. 

Frances did not attempt any conversation. She was 
very tired, and the thought of that letter which could only 
be read in solitude burdened her. She had not answered 
the first, and he had written again so soon! She had a 
bewildered feeling as of being driven against her will, but 
whither she could not have said. Only she knew that if 
she would save herself this letter must be answered. He 
was growing impatient, and perhaps it was not surpris¬ 
ing. She had given him a certain right over her. He 
could at least with justice claim an explanation of her 
changed attitude. But the bare thought of such an ex- 
123 


124 


Tetherstones 


planation revolted her. She had a passionate desire to 
thrust him out of her life, never to see him, never to 
communicate with him again. Only she knew—too well 
—that he would not submit to such treatment. Sooner 
or later he would demand a reckoning. And—torturing 
thought!—after all, had he not a right? 

Oliver’s cheery voice across the lawn diverted her at¬ 
tention. He was leaning on the sill of the dairy window, 
talking jauntily to someone within. She liked Oliver— 
Oliver Twist as they called him, on account, she had dis¬ 
covered, of a slight limp, the result of a kick on the knee 
in his boyhood. He had a gay personality that appealed 
to her, and the comic flash of his daring blue eyes was a 
thing to remember. He was never depressed, whatever 
the weather. 

He was plainly enjoying himself on this occasion, and 
presently a ringing laugh in unison with his told her who 
was the companion of his idle moments. There was only 
one person at Tetherstones who ever laughed like that. 

Milly glanced up nervously from her work at the 
sound, but made no comment. Only, as the distant figure 
suddenly leapt the sill and disappeared into the dairy, she 
coloured very deeply as if ashamed. Frances, who had 
viewed the whole incident with amused interest, felt a 
little out of patience with her. She had noticed before 
that Maggie and Oliver were evidently kindred spirits. 

She closed her eyes with the reflection that Milly must 
be something of a prude, when a sudden commotion re¬ 
kindled her interest and she opened them again in time to 
see Oliver come hurtling through the window with amaz¬ 
ing force to land on his back in a bed of mignonette. 
With amazement that seemed to choke her she saw 
Arthur, his head lowered like an infuriated bull, draw 
back from the window into the dairy. 


125 


Maggie 

“Good heavens!” she said aloud. “Did he do that?” 

“Yes,” said Milly under her breath. She added very 
nervously, “It—it—it was Oliver’s fault.” 

“Good heavens!” said Frances again. 

The glimpse of Arthur’s face, dead-white, a mask of 
anger, had set her pulses wildly throbbing. She watched 
tensely to see what Oliver would do. 

What he did do amazed her almost more than his first 
involuntary gymnastic. He got up from the mignonette 
laughing as if he had just come out of a football scrum, 
straightened his attire without the smallest hint of dis¬ 
comfiture, and coolly vaulted back through the window 
into the dairy. 

“Ah!” whispered Milly, and held her breath. 

She clearly expected some further act of violence, and 
trembled for the young man’s safety. Frances also 
watched with keen anxiety. But at the end of many 
seconds she began to realize that the episode was over. 
No one approached the window again. 

Milly drew a deep breath and resumed her work in 
silence. 

It was clear that she did not wish to discuss what had 
just taken place, and Frances was far too considerate to 
trouble her with questions or comments. But the inci¬ 
dent had very successfully diverted her own thoughts. 
She actually forgot that disturbing letter which lay hidden 
under her cushion. 

Her thoughts dwelt persistently upon Arthur Dermot. 
The man puzzled her. There was something tragic about 
him, something fierce, untamed and solitary, with which 
she found herself strangely in sympathy. She realized 
that the life he led was a singlehanded fight against odds. 
He was like a swimmer battling to make headway against 
an overwhelming current, succeeding only in keeping 


126 


Tetherstones 


afloat; and she who for so long had also fought alone 
was aware of a quick sense of comradeship urging her to 
a readier comprehension than it seemed anyone else at 
Tetherstones possessed. She was beginning to under¬ 
stand what had made her first visualize him as a gladiator 
standing alone in the arena of life. 

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, save that 
Oliver presently appeared, unabashed and cheery of mien, 
armed with a hoe, and proceeded, whistling, to restore 
order in the bed of crushed mignonette. Then Dolly came 
out with her midday meal, after which the sisters took her 
back to her room to rest. She slept deeply during the 
afternoon, only awakening when the shadows were be¬ 
ginning to grow long. Then, looking forth from her 
window, there came to her the sudden memory of the 
letter she had forgotten. A gleam of something white 
under the cedar-tree where her couch had been caught 
her eye, and she realized immediately that it must have 
fallen there when they gathered up her rugs. The house 
was very still and seemed deserted. She guessed that 
those of the family who were not occupied in farm-work 
were gathering apples for cider in the orchard on the 
other side of the building. 

There was no one to send for her letter, and that sense 
of shame with which the bare thought of Rotherby now 
inspired her urged her strongly not to leave it for any 
chance comer to discover. She was stronger far than 
she had been, and she made swift decision to use her 
strength. She got up from her bed and slipped on her 
shoes. She was already dressed, and she only paused to 
throw around her a shawl that Dolly had left handy. 
Then, with an odd feeling of guilt, she opened her door 
and went out into the dark oak passage. 

The stairs were steep and winding. She knew that 


127 


Maggie 

they would try her endurance and prepared to descend 
with caution. The dizziness of weakness came upon her 
as she reached them. And she hung upon the rail of the 
banisters to gather her forces. 

In those moments of semi-helplessness there came to 
her the sound of voices talking in the kitchen below, but 
having embarked upon the expedition she was in no mood 
to draw back on account of a little physical weakness and 
it did not even cross her mind to call for help. Resolutely 
she summoned her strength, and, conquering her giddi¬ 
ness, began to descend. 

It seemed to her that the stairs had become inex¬ 
plicably steeper, and her hold upon the rail had developed 
into a desperate clinging with both hands before she 
rounded the final curve which brought her in sight of the 
bottom. Her heart was thumping uncontrollably, and 
her legs were almost refusing to support her by the time 
she reached the last stair. It was necessity rather than 
expediency that induced her to sit down there at the foot 
to gather her forces afresh. 

So sitting, with her throbbing head in her hands, there 
came to her words at first dimly, then with a growing 
meaning which, too late she realized, were never intended 
for her ear to hear. 

“I'd do it in a minute—you know I would,—” it was 
Maggie’s voice, but strangely devoid of its customary 
cheery lilt—“if it weren’t for Mother. But—I believe it 
would kill her if another of us went wrong.” 

“I’m not asking you to go wrong!” Swift and decided 
came the answer in Oliver’s voice. “I wouldn’t do such 
a thing. I love you too much for that. Good heavens! 
Don’t you think your honour is as dear to me as it is to 
your mother—or Arthur?” 

“Yes, but—” Unmistakable distress sounded in Mag- 


128 


Tetherstones 


gie’s rejoinder. She gave a little sob and left it at that. 

“Well, then!” said Oliver, in the tone of one who 
scores a triumph. 

There was a brief pause, then a sudden movement, 
followed by a muffled whisper from Maggie that was half 
protest and half appeal. “I don’t know what Arthur 
would say. He’d half kill you.” 

“Oh, damn Arthur!” came the cheery response. “Why 
can’t he get a girl of his own? P’raps he’d be more 
human then.” 

“He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t! Nothing would make 
him that, so long as—” Again the words broke off in 
half-hearted remonstrance. 

“Rot!” said Oliver. “Once you were married to me, 
he’d have to come into line.” 

“No—no, he wouldn’t! You don’t understand.” Mag¬ 
gie’s answer came with a sound of tears. “You don’t 
know him if you think that. He would simply kick you 
out of the place. And Mother—Mother would break her 
heart if I went too.” 

“Don’t cry!” said Oliver softly. 

Maggie was plainly sobbing against his shoulder. “I 
can’t help it. Oh, Oliver, we’ll have to be patient. We’ll 
have to wait.” 

“But what are we going to wait for?” There was a 
hint of exasperation in Oliver’s query. “I don’t see what 
we gain by waiting. You’re twenty-eight. I’m thirty- 
two. We’ve both of us waited five years as it is.” 

“Yes—yes! But let’s go on waiting—there’s a darling. 
Something’ll happen some day. Something’s sure to 
happen. And then we’ll get married.” Urgent entreaty 
backed the words. “It’s no good getting married if we 
can’t live together. And we—we—we are—very happy 
—as we are.” 


Maggie 129 

More tears followed the assurance. Maggie was evi¬ 
dently aware of pleading a lost cause. 

“Oh, we’re awfully happy, aren’t we?” said Oliver, 
grimly humorous. “Don’t cry, darling! I want to think. 
There’s no law against our getting married—even if we 
don’t live together—that I can see, is there? It would 
make things more sure anyway, and I guess we’d be a lot 
happier.” 

“Oh, Oliver! Deceiving everyone! I couldn’t do it! 
Why, I’d be miserable every time I went to church!” 

“No, you wouldn’t. There’d be no harm done to any¬ 
one. You’re old enough to manage your own life, and no 
one has any right to know how you do it.” Oliver spoke 
with blunt decision. “You love me and I love you, and if 
we choose to marry—well, it doesn’t matter a damn to 
anyone else. I may not be good enough for you, but 
that’s your business, not Arthur’s. If I’m good enough 
to love, I’m good enough to marry.” 

“Yes.” Dubiously came Maggie’s answer. “But then, 
Oliver darling, what’s the use ? We couldn’t be together 
any more than we are. And we-” 

“That’s rot, isn’t it?” Vigorously Oliver overruled 
her argument. “Well, anyway, you marry me and 
see!” 

“Ah, but I’m afraid. The beast—the beast might do 
you a mischief!” 

There was almost a wail in Maggie’s words, but 
Oliver’s hearty laugh drowned it. “Bless the girl! What 
next? Seems I’d better carry a pitchfork about with me. 
No, now listen! I’ll fix it all up, and I won’t even tell you 
till it’s all cut and dried. Then one day you and I’ll go 
into Fordestown to market, and when we come back we’ll 
—” Inarticulate whispering ended the sentence. “There 
now! Will you do that?” 



130 


Tetherstones 


“I don’t know, Oliver. I’m frightened. I’m sure it 
isn’t right, and yet I don’t know why.” 

Maggie’s answer sounded piteous, yet somehow 
Frances knew that her arms were clinging about her 
lover’s neck. 

There came a pause, then Oliver’s cheery voice. “There 
now! Don’t you fret yourself! You may take it from me, 
it is right. And I’m going in to Fordestown to-morrow 
to get it settled. Mind, I shan’t say another word to you 
till everything is ready. You won’t back out? Promise!” 

“Back out! Oh, darling—darling!” 

Broken sounds came from Maggie that brought 
Frances to an abrupt realization of her position. She 
straightened herself and got up. Her knees were still 
trembling, but she forced them into action. She tottered 
down the passage to the nearest door and out on to the 
brick path that led to the garden. 

The sun was going down. She passed between tall 
hollyhocks and sunflowers into the kitchen-garden. The 
lawn lay beyond. It was further than she had thought, 
and her strength was failing her. She came upon a rough 
bench set against the wall out of sight of the house and 
dropped down upon it with a feeling that she could go 
no further. 

How long she had sat there she could not have said, for 
she was very near to fainting, when there came the sound 
of a man’s feet on the path beside her, and, looking up, she 
saw Arthur in his shirt-sleeves, a spade on his shoulder. 

He stopped beside her, and drove his spade into the 
ground. 

“Miss Thorold!” he said. “What are they all thinking 
of? How did you come here?” 

She tried to smile in answer, but her lips felt very cold 
and numb. “Oh, I just—walked,” she said. 


Maggie 131 

“You—walked!” Amazement and displeasure sounded 
in his voice. “Where is everyone ?” he said. “Where is 
Maggie?” 

He swung on his heel as if he would go in search of 
her, but Frances put forth an urgent hand to detain 
him. 

“Don’t go! It—really doesn’t matter. Maggie is busy 
—getting the tea. I—I didn’t like to interrupt her. I 
give too much trouble as it is.” 

Arthur growled something very deeply into his chest, 
but he checked his first impulse at her behest. 

“Well, but what are you doing here? Why did you 
come out?” he asked, after a moment. 

She hesitated to answer him. Then: “I dropped a 
letter,” she said. “It is under the cedar-tree. I just 
thought I would fetch it.” 

“You must be mad,” he said. “Stay here while I fetch 
it!” 

He strode away, and she sat and waited for his return, 
shivering against the wall, wondering if Maggie and 
Oliver had separated, wishing with all her heart that she 
had not overheard their talk. 

She heard the tramp of his heavy boots returning. He 
came back to her. 

“The letter is not here,” he said briefly. “Does it 
matter?” 

She started. “Not there! But—I thought I saw it 
from my window. I thought——” 

“It is not there,” he repeated. “It has probably blown 
away. Is it of any great importance?” 

His tone seemed to challenge her. She looked up and 
met his eyes watching her with a certain hardness. 

“No,” she said, and wondered what impulse moved her 
to utter the word. 


132 


Tetherstones 


“You are sure?” he said. 

She smiled a little at his insistence. “Yes, quite sure. 
Please don’t trouble about it! It will probably turn up 
later.” 

He dropped the subject without further discussion. 
“I had better carry you back now,” he remarked, and 
stooped to lift her. 

She drew back sharply. “Oh, don’t, please! I can 
walk quite well.” 

“You’re not going to walk,” he said, and in a mo¬ 
ment the strong brown arms encompassed her. 

She abandoned protest. Somehow he made her feel 
like a child, and she knew that resistance was useless. It 
was not a dignified situation, but it appealed to her sense 
of humour, and as he bore her solidly back along the 
paths between the hollyhocks she uttered a breathless 
little laugh. 

“What a giant you are!” she said. 

“So you’re not angry?” he said. 

“Why, no! Iam obliged to you. To be quite honest, 
I rather doubt if I could have walked back without some 
help.” 

“Then it is just as well I am here to carry you,” he 
rejoined. 

There was no sound of voices as he entered the house, 
and Frances breathed a sigh of thankfulness. 

He carried her straight through and up to her room. 
“I hope you will not attempt that again before you are 
fit for it,” he said, as he deposited her upon the bed. 

“Thank you very much. I hope I shall soon be fit,” 
said Frances. 

He lingered in the doorway, his rugged face in shadow. 
“I hope you won’t,” he said suddenly and unexpectedly, 
and in a moment flung away down the passage awk- 


Maggie 133 

wardly, precipitately, as if he feared he had stayed too 
long. 

“Good gracious!” whispered Frances to the lengthen¬ 
ing shadows. “What—on earth—did he mean by that?” 

But there was only the queer uneven beating of her 
heart to answer her in the silence. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE PATH THROUGH THE WILDERNESS 

Frances slept badly that night. There were a good 
many things to trouble her and keep her brain at work. 
The thought of Maggie’s clandestine love affair worried 
her most, though why this should have been so she could 
not have said. There seemed to be a league among the 
sisters against their brother’s authority, and she felt that 
against her will she had been drawn into it. She would 
have given anything not to have overheard that talk in 
the kitchen, but she found it impossible to forget it. And 
yet to interfere in any way seemed to her impossible. 
Maggie was of an age to direct her own affair, as surely 
Arthur ought to recognize. Her love for young Oliver 
was evidently of long standing, and, however unsuitable 
it might appear, no third person had the right to attempt 
to frustrate it. To Frances, who had guarded her own 
independence so jealously for so long, such a course was 
inexcusable. But the secret worried her. There seemed 
to be forces at work at Tetherstones of which she had 
no knowledge—sinister forces with which Maggie obvi¬ 
ously felt unable to cope. And Arthur was so strange, so 
headlong, so impossible to manage. 

Arthur! The thought of Arthur held her in a kind 
of breathless wonder. The man amazed her at every 
turn, but he never awaked in her that palpitating doubt 
with which she had always regarded Rotherby. He 
134 


The Path Through the Wilderness 135 

might possess violent impulses, but he was upright, he 
was honourable. What he said, he meant. There was 
even something terrible in his simplicity. He was a 
man who would suffer the utmost torture sooner than 
betray a friend. He was also a man who might inflict 
it without scruple upon an enemy who had incurred 
his vengeance. 

His attitude towards herself had a curious effect upon 
her. She was aware of a strong bond of sympathy be¬ 
tween them. They were rebels together. They had 
eaten stones for bread. They could not remain as 
strangers. There was that about him that made her 
wonder if he had ever had a friend before. He stood 
out above and beyond the rest with a kind of solitary 
grandeur that strangely moved her—a man who should 
have made his mark in the world of men, but condemned 
to till the soil to give them bread—a slave who had been 
fashioned for a conqueror. The irony of it stirred her 
strangely. She wondered if anyone else saw in him 
aught but a tiller of the ground. The old man, his 
father, perhaps? But no! He had spoken of him with 
contempt. She had been aware of a hostility scarcely 
veiled between them. The old man evidently despised 
him for the very servitude that so plainly galled his soul. 
Did no one understand him, she wondered? And then 
the memory of the mother, white-haired and patient, 
came to her, and by a flash of intuition she realized that 
here lay the explanation of many things. He had har¬ 
nessed himself to the plough for her sake. She could 
not doubt it. Though she had never seen them together, 
she knew that she had discovered the truth, and she was 
conscious, poignantly conscious, of a feeling akin to 
indignation. How could any woman accept such a sacri¬ 
fice? 


136 


Tetherstones 


Of her own affairs, of Montague Rotherby, she thought 
but little that night. The inner voice that had so urgently 
warned her no longer spoke within her soul. The need 
was past. Inexplicably, the attraction of the man had 
gone with it. The loss of her letter had vexed her tem¬ 
porarily, but now she had almost forgotten it. By her 
silence she would sever all connection with him. She 
judged him as not ardent enough to follow up the quest. 
The madness was over and would never return. Once 
again, and this time with a sense of comfort, she re¬ 
flected that she was not the type of woman to appeal to 
such a man for long. That last letter of his had probably 
been one of farewell. On the whole she was not sorry 
that she had not read it. She wanted to forget him as 
soon as possible and with him the bitter humiliation he 
had made her suffer. It was better to forget than to 
hate. No; decidedly it was not on his account that 
Frances passed a restless night. 

With the early morning came sleep that lasted till 
the sun was high, and Ruth came in to perch on her bed 
while she breakfasted. She had been out in the corn¬ 
fields, she said. They were cutting the corn in the field 
below the Stones. Next week, when Frances was strong 
enough, they would go and sit among the sheaves. Or 
perhaps they might go to-day if Uncle Arthur would 
take them in the dog-cart. The idea attracted Frances 
though she only smiled. The day was hot, and she was 
feeling better. She had a desire to go out into the sun¬ 
shine, away from the old grey house and its secrets, of 
which already she felt she knew too much. 

She did not know that the child had read acquiescence 
in her silence till later, when Dolly suddenly announced 
that the cart would be round in half-an-hour, and they 
must hurry. 


The Path Through the Wilderness 137 

“It would do you good to spend the whole day out 
to-day,” said the practical Dolly, whom Frances sus¬ 
pected of being secretly a little tired of a job that had 
ceased to be interesting. “Elsie and Lucy and Nell will 
all be to and fro if you should want anything. And no 
one could possibly catch cold on a day like this. Milly 
and I are going to Wearmouth to do some shopping, but 
I shall be back in good time to get you to bed. Dr. 
Square said he might not come to-day. If he does, it 
won’t hurt him to ride as far as the cornfield to see 
you.” 

It had evidently been all talked over and arranged be¬ 
forehand, and Frances had no objection to raise. In 
fact, the prospect delighted her. 

“I should like to take my sketching-block,” she said. 
“And I shall be quite happy.” 

So, armed with her beloved box of paints and brushes, 
she presently descended to find Arthur waiting some¬ 
what moodily at the door with a pie-bald cob harnessed 
to a light dog-cart. His dark face brightened at the sight 
of her. He took the pipe from between his teeth and 
knocked out its contents on the heel of his boot. 

“Better this morning?” he asked, as she came out. 

She smiled at him, panting from her descent of the 
stairs, but resolutely ignoring her weakness. “Yes, I 
am much better. I am as strong as a horse to-day. Are 
you really going to drive me to the corn-fields? How 
kind of you!” 

“Jump up!” said Arthur. “You go to his head, Dolly! 
I’ll help Miss Thorold.” 

He issued his orders with characteristic decision, and 
they were obeyed. Almost before she knew it, Frances 
found herself lifted on to the high seat where he wrapped 
a rug about her knees and pushed a cushion behind her. 


138 


Tetherstones 


The next moment he mounted beside her and took the 
reins. Dolly stepped back. The horse leaped forward. 

“Hold on!” said Arthur. 

They were out in the winding lane before Frances 
found breath to ask for Ruth. “Won’t she come with 
us? Have you forgotten her?” 

“We never trouble about Ruth,” he replied. “She 
finds her own way everywhere. She will probably go 
across the stepping stones and get there first.” 

“Are you never afraid of her coming to harm?” she 
asked. 

“She never does,” said Arthur. He spoke briefly, and 
immediately turned from the subject. “Do you mind if 
we go for a stretch first? The horse is fresh.” 

“Mind!” said Frances. “I’d love it!” 

He laughed, and she knew in a moment that the plan 
was by no means an impromptu one. “It will do you 
good,” he said, and turned the horse’s head towards the 
moors. 

They came out upon an open road and went like the 
wind. The day was glorious, the distant tors all blue 
and purple in the sunshine. They followed a direction 
she had never explored, and presently turned off up a 
wide track that seemed to wind into the very heart of the 
hills. 

“Afraid it’s rather bumpy,” said Arthur. “Do you 
mind ?” 

“I mind nothing,” she answered simply. 

He glanced at her. “You are not disliking it?” 

She drew a long breath. “I don’t believe I ever knew 
what life could be before to-day.” 

He said no more. The guiding of the horse took up 
all his attention. They came presently to a track cross¬ 
ing the one they were following. 


The Path Through the Wilderness 139 

He reined in as if he had reached his destination. 
Frances looked about her. The place was lonely beyond 
description. Here and there vast boulders pushed 
through the short grass, surrounded by tufts of heather 
that seemed to be trying to hide their nakedness. They 
were closely surrounded by hills, and the gurgle of an 
invisible stream filled the air with music. 

“Have you ever been here before ?” said Arthur. 

“Never,” she said. 

“Yes, you have,” he returned bluntly. 

She started a little, and looked about her more atten¬ 
tively. Was the place familiar? 

He pointed suddenly with his whip along the track 
they faced. “You and Roger!” he said. “Don’t you re¬ 
member ?” 

She uttered a gasp of surprise. “Why—yes! But 
was it here?” 

“It was round the curve of that hill,” he said. “After¬ 
wards, you came on here alone, and lost your way, took 
the wrong turning. Remember?” 

“I wanted to get to Fordestown,” she said. “But I 
was tired. I fell asleep.” 

He nodded. “And then you wandered up to the 
Stones.” 

She felt herself colour. With an effort she answered 
him. “It wasn’t quite like that. I met—a friend, or 
rather—he found me here. We got lost in the fog. That 
was how it happened.” 

“Yes,” said Arthur. 

He turned the horse up the wild track to the left with¬ 
out further words, and they went on in silence at a walk. 

A great stillness brooded about their path. A certain 
awe had taken possession of Frances. The ruggedness 
of the place, its austerity, held her like a spell. The high 


140 Tetherstones 

hills shut them in, and the music of many streams was the 
only sound. 

“You are taking me to the Stones ?” she said at length, 
and unconsciously her voice was sunk almost to a 
whisper. 

“Yes,” he said. 

They went on up the lonely track. She tried to picture 
her walk with Montague through the blinding fog. Here 
she had slipped into bog, there she had stumbled among 
stones. Then as now, the vague sounds of running water 
had filled the desolation as with eerie, chanting voices. 
The smell of bog-myrtle came to her suddenly, and in 
a moment very vividly the terror of that night was back 
upon her. The thud of the horse’s hoofs on the wet 
track fell with a fateful, remorseless beat. She experi¬ 
enced a swift, almost overwhelming desire to turn back. 

It must have communicated itself to the man beside 
her, for he checked the animal with a curt word and 
brought the swaying cart to a standstill. 

“Miss Thorold, what is it? Have I brought you too 
far?” 

The concern in his voice reassured her. She met his 
look with a smile. “No! I am quite all right. It is only 
my foolish imagination—playing tricks with me. Shall 
we go on?” 

“Do you wish to go on?” he said. 

“Yes. I am longing to see the Stones. I think this is 
rather a dreadful place, don’t you? It makes one think 
of”—she stumbled a little—“of human sacrifice. Do you 
hold your father’s theory about the Stones ?” 

“I seldom agree with my father about anything,” he 
returned sombrely. “Yes, you are right. This is a 
dreadful place. It has a bad name, as I told you before.” 

They went on up the grassy track, mounting steadily. 


The Path Through the Wilderness 141 

The rocky nature of the ground became more and more 
pronounced as they proceeded. The grass grew more 
sparsely though the tufts of heather continued. 

“Are you frightened?” Arthur asked abruptly. 

“No,” said Frances. 

He looked at her. “You are sure?” 

“What is there to frighten me?” she said. 

“You were frightened the last time you came,” he 
said. 

“Oh, that was different. It was foggy. I was lost.” 
She spoke quickly, with a touch of confusion, aware of 
the old embarrassment stirring within her. 

He turned his eyes deliberately away and stared at 
the horse’s ears. “Would you be frightened now,” he 
said, “if a fog came up and you didn’t know the way?” 

“Not with you to guide me,” she said. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. 

The hills closed gradually in upon the track till it was 
little more than a narrow passage, winding among 
boulders. The horse’s feet clattered upon stones. Quite 
suddenly the path mounted steeply between two large 
rocks and disappeared. 

“Can we possibly get up there?” said Frances. 

The man beside her made no reply. He merely struck 
the animal with the whip, so that he plunged at the steep 
ascent, and in a few moments was clambering up it with 
desperate effort. The cart rocked and jolted, and Frances 
clung to the rail. They reached the two grey rocks at 
the summit and passed between them on to a flat open 
space that shone green in the sunshine. 

“This is the place,” said Arthur. 

Frances looked all about her and drew a long, deep 
breath. “Ah! How—wonderful!” she said. “What a 
wilderness!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE STONES 

They stood up all around, forming a great amphi¬ 
theatre—the great, grey stones that had weathered so 
many centuries. Stark and grim, sentinels of the ages, 
they stood in their changeless circle, as they had stood 
in the early days of the world ere men had learned to sub¬ 
due the earth. 

Frances sat and gazed and gazed with a curious feel¬ 
ing of reverence upon that forgotten place of sacrifice. 

“Isn’t it strange?” she whispered to herself. “Isn’t 
it wonderful?” 

And then she turned to the man by her side. “It re¬ 
minds me of the days when you were a Roman gladiator 
and I was one of the slaves who sprinkled the saw-dust 
in the arena.” 

He looked at her with his brooding eyes. “So you 
were a slave?” he said. 

“I have always been one,” she answered, with a quiz¬ 
zical lifting of the brows. 

“You were not intended for a slave,” he said. 

She smiled a little. “May I get down? I should like 
to walk here.” 

“Are you strong enough?” he said. 

“Of course I am strong enough. When I am tired, I 
will curl up and sleep in the sunshine.” 

“You’re not afraid?” he said* 

142 


The Stones 143 

She faced him. “Of course I am not afraid. Why 
should I be?” 

He lifted his shoulders slightly. “You were—or I 
imagined you were—a little while ago.” 

“Oh, that was different,” she said. “Anyway, I am 
not so foolish now. I could sit here for hours and 
sketch.” 

“It has been called the devil’s paradise,” he said rather 
harshly. 

She snapped her fingers and laughed. “I am never 
afraid of the devil when the sun is out. Are you?” 

“Sometimes,” he said. 

He jumped to the ground and turned to help her, the 
reins over his arm. 

She slipped down into his hold. “But there is nothing 
to frighten anyone here,” she said. 

Even as she spoke, her heart misgave her a little. The 
Stones looked more imposing from the ground. Some 
of them had an almost threatening aspect. They seemed 
to crouch like gigantic monsters about to spring. 

“It is certainly a wonderful place,” she said. “And 
the farm is close by?” 

“Just down the hill on the other side,” he said. “It 
takes its name from them. Some bygone race probably 
used the place for sacrifice. The actual Tetherstones to 
which the victims were said to have been fastened are 
over there, close to the cattle-shed in which Ruth found 
you. The shed is just out of sight below the brow of 
the hill.” 

“It is a wonderful place,” Frances said again. 

She relinquished his arm, and began to walk a few 
steps over the grass. The man stood motionless, watch¬ 
ing her. His brows were drawn. He had a waiting look. 

Suddenly she turned and came back to him. She was 


144 


Tetherstones 


smiling, but her face was pale. “Mr. Dermofi I am not 
sure that I do want to stay here after all/’ she said. 
“There’s something I can’t -quite describe—something 
uncanny in the atmosphere.” 

“You want to go?” he said. 

She shivered sharply, standing in the full sunshine. 
“I don’t want to be left alone here.” 

“No,” he said, in his brief way. “And I don’t mean 
you to be here alone.” He put out a hand and pointed to 
a curiously shaped stone so poised that it seemed to be 
on the point of rolling towards them. “Do you see that? 
That is one of the great tetherstones. It is called the 
stone of sacrifice. It is so balanced that a child could 
make it rock, but no one could move it from its place. 
There are marks on that stone that scientists declare have 
been made by human hands, places where staples have 
been driven in, and so cunningly devised that prisoners 
chained to those staples were unharmed so long as they 
remained passive. But the moment they strained for 
freedom, the stone rocked slowly to and fro and they were 
crushed-—gradually ground to death.” 

“Oh, don’t!” Frances cried. “How gruesome—how 
horrible!” 

“A devil’s paradise!” he said. 

“But why did you bring me here?” she protested. 
“Why do you tell me these dreadful things?” 

He shrugged his shoulders again. “I brought you 
here to satisfy your curiosity. My father will tell you 
much more horrible things than that. His book is full 
of them.” 

“Let us go!” she said, shuddering. “I won’t come here 
again.” 

“As you wish,” he said. “There are certainly 
pleasanter places.” 


The Stones 


i45 


He helped her back into the cart, and wrapped the 
rug about her knees. As he did so, with his face turned 
from her he spoke again in a tone that affected her very 
strangely. 

“Miss Thorold, I haven’t told you everything. There 
is a much more modern tragedy connected with this 
place which I haven’t told you of. It isn’t a subject that 
is ever mentioned among us, and I can’t go into any de¬ 
tails. But—you’ve probably discovered by this time that 
there is something that makes us different from the rest 
of the world. It is—that.” 

He spoke with an effort, and for the first time in all 
her knowledge of men there came to Frances that tender, 
motherly feeling that comes to every woman when she is 
face to face with a man’s suffering. 

She sat for a moment or two without moving or speak¬ 
ing; then she put out a hesitating hand and touched his 
shoulder. “I am sorry,” she said very gently. 

He drew in his breath sharply, but still he did not 
look at her. “I have never spoken of it to anyone out¬ 
side before. But you are somewhat different. You have 
been through the mill, and you are capable of understand¬ 
ing? 

“I hope so,” she said. 

He jerked up his head with an odd movement of de¬ 
fiance. “There’s one thing I would like you to know,” 
he said. “Though I am no more than a country clod 
and grind my living out of the stones, I’ve made a 
success of it. There’s not a single farmer hereabouts 
who can say that he has a better show than mine. In 
fact, they know quite well that Tetherstones beats them 
all.” 

“That was worth doing,” said Frances. 

“Yes. It was worth doing. But now that it’s done, 


146 


Tetherstones 


anyone could run it—anyone with any experience. Oliver 
could run it.” He spoke contemptuously. 

“Then why not let him,” suggested Frances, “and take 
a holiday yourself?” 

“Let him!” He turned upon her almost violently. 
“Leave Oliver to run this show! You don’t know—” 
He pulled himself up. “Of course you don’t know. 
How should you? Oliver is very useful, but he is only a 
labourer after all. I don’t see myself putting him in my 
place. He thinks too much of himself as it is.” 

“Ah!” Frances said, with an unpleasant feeling of 
duplicity at her heart. “But you like him, don’t you? 
He is a good sort?” 

“I hope he is a good sort,” Arthur said grimly. “He 
needs to be kept in his place. I know that much. And 
I’ll see that it’s done, too.” 

He looked at her hard with the words, as if challeng¬ 
ing a reply. But Frances made none. Her years of rigor¬ 
ous work had taught her to maintain silence where she 
felt speech to be futile. She never wasted her words. 

And in a moment Arthur relaxed. “I couldn’t leave 
my post in any case,” he said. “There are—other rea¬ 
sons.” 

“Yes,” Frances said, glad of the change of topic. “I 
realize that.” 

“Do you? How?” Again that peremptory, challeng¬ 
ing look met hers. 

But she answered him with absolute simplicity. On 
this point at least she felt no qualms. “On account of 
your mother,” she said. “I guessed that.” 

His face changed, softening magically. “Yes, my 
mother,” he said. “But what made you guess it?” 

“It just came to me,” she said. “I knew you must 
be fond of someone.” 


The Stones 


i47 


He looked away from her to a gap of blue distance in 
front of them, and for a few seconds there was silence 
between them. Then: “Thank you for saying that,” he 
said, “and for thinking it. You have an extraordinary 
insight. Do you read everyone’s motives in this way? 
Or is it only mine?” 

There was a hint of melancholy in the question, as 
though he invited ridicule to cover an unacknowledged 
pathos. But Frances did not answer it, for she had no 
answer ready. She felt as if in his silence he had lifted 
the veil and given her a glimpse of his lonely soul. She 
saw him as it were surrounded by a great solitude which 
she could not cross. And so she turned away. 

“I am not a great reader of character,” she said. 
“Only I know that there is only one way of turning our 
stones into bread. And if we don’t find it, we starve.” 

“Yes, starve!” He repeated the word with his eyes 
still upon the blue distance. “I’m used to starving,” he 
said slowly. “It’s a sort of chronic state with me.” 

The sound of the reaping-machine came whirring 
through the sunlit silence, and the man pulled himself 
together with a gesture of impatience. “Well, I suppose 
we must go. You have seen the Stones, and I hope you 
are satisfied.” 

“I am glad you brought me,” she said. “But I don’t 
think I shall come again.” 

He looked at her, and she thought there was a hint of 
relief on his face. “You have seen all there is to see,” 
he said. “I think you are wise.” 

He mounted into the cart beside her and walked the 
horse forward over the grass. 

“There is little Ruth,” said Frances. 

The child had come suddenly into view from behind 
one of the great stones, moving as was her wont lightly 


148 


Tetherstones 


and fearlessly, her face upturned. She was carrying a 
small bunch of harebells, and as she came towards them 
she stooped and felt among the grass for more. Her 
soft, chirruping song rose up like the humming of a 
fairy. Finding some of the wiry stalks she sought, she 
knelt down in the sunshine to gather them. 

“How happy she is!” whispered Frances. 

The man said nothing. He walked the horse straight 
up to the little kneeling figure and reined in beside it. 

“Is that you, Uncle Arthur?” said little Ruth. 

“Yes,” he said. “Come here to me and I will take you 
back to the corn-field!” 

She got up and came to him. He stooped and grasped 
her shoulder, guiding her to the step. 

“Is Miss Thorold there?” said the child. 

“Yes, darling. I am here,” Frances answered, and 
made room for her in the seat. 

Ruth mounted the step, and in a moment nestled in 
beside her. “I gathered these flowers for you,” she said. 

“Thank you, darling.” Frances took the flowers and 
stooped to kiss her. 

“I’ve been waiting for you a long, long time,” Ruth 
said. “Have you liked your drive?” 

“I have loved it,” Frances said with simplicity. 

“Thank you,” said Arthur quietly, on the other side. 

They passed on through the great circle and out be¬ 
tween the stones on to a narrow track that led steeply 
downwards to a lane. 

The buzz of a car rose from below them as they ap¬ 
proached it, and Arthur drew in his horse. The car went 
by unseen, but to Frances in the high cart there came 
a sudden, sharp sense of insecurity that was almost panic, 
and for a moment she ceased to breathe. She knew that 
car. 


The Stones 


149 


Her agitation subsided gradually. They went on down 
the lane and turned into the corn-field. 

“I must leave you here,” Arthur said. 

He helped them both down and settled them comfort¬ 
ably with a rug and cushions in the shade of the hedge. 

“Will you be all right here?” he asked Frances. “I 
will tell Elsie to look after you.” 

“I shall be quite all right,” she assured him. “Please 
don’t let anyone waste any time over me!” 

He smiled and turned away. She watched him go with 
an answering smile upon her lips. 

Roger came up and lay down beside them. The peace 
of a perfect day descended upon the harvest-field. The 
fragrance of the cut corn was like an oblation. 

“Are we alone?” said Ruth. 

“Yes, darling. Why?” 

The little girl came pressing close to her side. “Be¬ 
cause I’ve got something to tell you, and it’s a secret. I 
met a man to-day in the lane, who said he was a friend 
of yours. He didn’t tell me who he was, but it was the 
friend who wrote that letter to you. And he said—would 
I tell you that he will be at the Stones again to-night at 
ten.” 


CHAPTER IX 

THE LETTER 

“At the Stones again to-night.” All through that 
morning in the corn-field the words were running in 
Frances’ brain. She tried to sketch, but her hand seemed 
to have lost its cunning, and there were times when a 
great trembling seized her. His letter she had thrust out 
of her mind. She had not read it, nor had she greatly 
desired to know what it contained. But his message was 
different, and again with the words she seemed to hear 
that rushing of an unseen car, and recalled the man, his 
bearing half-insolent, half-cynical, the curious persistence 
with which he had pursued her, the nameless attraction 
of his personality. She did not want to answer his mes¬ 
sage. She did not want to meet him. But yet—but yet 
—deep in the very heart of her she knew that a meeting 
was inevitable. A reckoning must come, and she was 
bound to face it. She might, if she so chose, avoid him 
now, but she could not avoid him always. Sooner or 
later she would have to endure her ordeal, and tell him 
—plainly tell him—that the madness was over and her 
eyes were open. She was not, and never had been, the 
type of woman which apparently he had taken her to be. 
And if he could not learn this by her silence she must 
summon strength to put the matter baldly into words. 

150 


The Letter 


151 

She shrank from the thought, but brought herself back 
to it again and again. The idea of writing to him pre¬ 
sented itself, but she discarded it with an even greater 
distaste. When the ordeal was over, she desired—earn¬ 
estly desired—that no trace of it should be left behind. 
No written word from her was in his possession now, nor 
should it ever be. She wanted to thrust away this un¬ 
clean thing that had come into her life so that no vestige 
of it remained. And not until she had done this would 
she feel free. 

So she argued with herself all through the long sunny 
morning, while the bundles of corn fell in ever-increasing 
numbers, and little Ruth flitted to and fro playing with 
the long golden strands that she drew from them. 

After a while Oliver came up with a smile on his merry 
face to talk to her, but he had scarcely reached her when 
there came the sound of a horse’s feet in the lane, and 
Dr. Square appeared at the gate. 

“They told me I should find you here,” he said, and 
came in and sat down beside her, while Oliver saluted 
and went away. 

She told the doctor of her drive in the dog-cart to the 
Stones, and he expressed some surprise that Arthur had 
taken her there. 

“He usually avoids the place like the plague,” he said. 

Her curiosity awakened. “Do you know why?” she 
said. 

“Yes, I know,” said Dr. Square. 

She looked at him. “Is it a secret?” 

She thought his red, wholesome face had a dubious 
look, but he answered her without actual hesitation. 
“Not that I know of. Naturally they don’t talk about 
it here at Tether stones. It was the scene of a very un¬ 
happy tragedy some six years ago.” His eyes rested upon 


152 


Tetherstones 


Ruth busy among the corn-sheaves at a little distance. 
“It was one of the sisters,” he said, “the child’s mother, 
—a lovely girl—a lovely girl. She died up there in a 
blizzard one winter night. She was out of her mind at 
the time. She took the little one with her. When we 
found them, she was frozen stiff, but the child still lived. 
Poor mite—poor little girl! She’d better have gone with 
her mother.” 

“Oh, why do you say that?” Frances said. “She is 
happy. There are plenty to love her.” 

The doctor’s eyes dwelt very tenderly upon the little 
figure. “I say it because it is true,” he said. “She is not 
like other children, Miss Thorold. She never will be. She 
is just—‘a little bit of heaven’ strayed down to earth. 
She is one of those the gods love.” 

“Oh, do you mean that?” Frances said. 

He nodded. “I mean it—yes. I told them long ago— 
the child won’t live to grow up. They all know it.” 

“But they take so little care of her!” said Frances. 

“It is far better she should lead a natural life,” he said. 
“She is just like a flower of the field. She will have her 
day—her little day, Miss Thorold. They are wise to 
leave her alone. Cooped up within four walls she would 
never have lived so long. Freedom is life to her.” 

“I often wonder that they dare to let her wander as 
she does,” Frances said. 

“It is far better,” said Dr. Square. He turned to her 
with a smile. “Has it never occurred to you that she is 
under special protection ? I have often thought it. They 
are all too busy to look after her, yet she is safe and happy. 
I think she is one of the happiest little souls I have ever 
met. I have never seen her cry. We need not pity her 
too much. In fact, I sometimes think she is hardly to 
be pitied at all.” 


The Letter 


i53 


“Perhaps you are right,” Frances said. 

The doctor’s philosophy appealed to her. She liked 
the simple fashion with which he regarded life. She 
would not question him further concerning the Dermot 
family, for some sense of loyalty restrained her. But 
when he was gone, she pondered over the matter. Why 
did they stay in a place that contained such painful asso¬ 
ciations for them? She had Arthur’s word for it that he 
had made a success of the farm, and every indication 
pointed to the fact. But it had been an uphill fight. Why 
had he chosen to make it there ? 

Midday came, and with it Lucy and Nell to take her 
back to the house. It was no great distance across the 
field to the garden, but it taxed her powers somewhat, 
for the ground was rough. She was glad when they 
reached the shade of the cedar-tree and she could sit down 
on the bench beneath it to rest. 

“You had better not go to the corn-field again,” said 
Nell. 

And she acquiesced. She would not do anything 
strenuous for the rest of the day. The thought of her 
letter recurred to her, and she looked about but saw 
nothing of it. Evidently it had blown away. 

After a brief interval she continued her journey to the 
house where Maggie joined them with kindly concern on 
her rosy face. 

“You do look tired,” she said. “Come and sit down 
in the kitchen for a little and see Mother scalding the 
cream!” 

The kitchen was oak-raftered and possessed an im¬ 
mense open fire-place with a brick oven at the side. 
Frances went in and was welcomed by Mrs. Dermot in 
her gentle, tired fashion, and made to sit down in a 
high-backed, wooden arm-chair. 


154 


Tetherstones 


The girls buzzed around her, and she had almost begun 
to forget her own pressing problem in the homely atmos¬ 
phere when a sudden angry shout rang through the house, 
and in a moment every voice in the kitchen was hushed. 

Frances, who was speaking to Mrs. Dermot at the 
moment saw her put her hand to her heart. Maggie came 
to her quickly and put an arm about her. But she spoke 
no word, and the silence was terrible. 

Then from the stone passage outside came a voice, 
Arthur’s voice, short and peremptory. 

“I’ll stand no more of this, and you know it. Let me 
pass !’■’ 

There was a brief pause, then an answering voice— 
the broken, quavering voice of an old man. “I have no 
wish to keep you here. You come into my room, tamper 
with my belongings, threaten me. I only ask you to go. 
What have I done that I should be treated like this ?” 

“What have you done?” A sound that was inexpressi¬ 
bly bitter followed the words. “Well, not much on this 
occasion perhaps. But I warn you, it had better not 
happen again. I will have no more of it. You under¬ 
stand?” 

“No.” Sudden dignity dispelled all agitation in the 
rejoinder. “I do not understand how my son who, if he 
is not a gentleman, has at least had the upbringing of one, 
as well as the advantage of good birth, can bring himself 
to treat his father with a brutality that he would not dis¬ 
play towards the dog in the stable. I protest against 
your behaviour, though I am as fully aware as you are 
that I have no remedy.” 

“None, sir, none.” Again that horrible jarring note 
was in Arthur’s voice. “It would be as well if you always 
bore that in mind. I am the master here, as I have told 
you before.” 


The Letter 


i55 


“You are a damned blackguard,” said the old man in 
a voice that was deadly cold. “Now leave my room!” 

There came the instant closing of a door, a step out¬ 
side, and Arthur entered. The veins stood out on his 
forehead; his face was terrible. He looked round the 
kitchen, paused for a moment with his eyes upon Frances 
as if he would speak; then, without a word, took a glass 
from the dresser, and went out to a pump in the yard. 

Mrs. Dermot drew a deep breath and gently released 
herself from Maggie’s arm. She turned as if to follow 
her son, but in a moment checked the impulse and busied 
herself over the fire. 

He entered again almost immediately, the tumbler 
half full in his hand. He went straight to his mother and 
murmured something in a low voice. She shook her 
head in silence. He drained the glass and set it down. 
Again his look went to Frances, and again he seemed on 
the verge of speech. Then a faint sob came from Lucy, 
and he swung round upon her with a scowl. 

She recoiled from him, and instantly Nell the valiant 
sprang into the breach. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Arthur, 
stop ramping!” she said. “Go away if you can’t control 
yourself, and come back when you feel better! We’ll 
have dinner ready in twenty minutes.” 

“Then you can send mine out to the farm-yard,” he 
rejoined curtly. “I’ll wait for it there.” 

He was gone with the words, and there went up a 
breath of relief from the kitchen at his exit. 

“Hadn’t we better get to work?” said Mrs. Dermot 
in her weary, subdued voice. “Father will be wanting 
his dinner too.” 

Frances stood up. “I will go up to my room,” she 
said. 

“Shall I come?” said Elsie. 



Tetherstones 


156 

“No, please don’t! I can manage quite well alone.” 
She passed the girl with a smile, intent upon removing 
herself before they should discover her presence to be 
an embarrassment. As she left the kitchen she heard a 
buzz of talk arise among the girls, and one very audible 
remark from Nell pursued her as she went. “Oh, we’ll 
get his dinner for him. It’s a pity he doesn’t always feed 
among the pigs.” 

Frances passed on, feeling oddly shaken. As she 
rounded the corner of the stairs, Oliver came clattering 
in from the back premises and overtook her. He stopped 
her without ceremony. 

“I just want a word with you, Miss Thorold. Do you 
mind? Don’t think it’s cheek on my part. It’s too urgent 
for that.” 

She stood and faced him. “Oliver, what’s the matter?” 

“Oh, don’t worry!” he said. “Don’t he scared! It’s 
just this. A friend of yours was just outside here to¬ 
day, asking for you. That is to say, he asked Ruth 
about you, for I asked her what he wanted and she said 
he gave her a message for you.” 

“Yes; that is so,” Frances said. “But what—what 


“What business is it of mine?” he said. “It isn’t my 
business, that’s straight. But you just listen a minute! 
I’m not rotting. You get that friend of yours out of the 
way—quick! Understand? There’s no time to be lost. 
If he stays in the neighbourhood there’ll be trouble. You 
tell him to go, Miss Thorold! It’s a friend’s advice, and 
for heaven’s sake, take it!” 

He spoke with great earnestness, and she saw that there 
were beads of perspiration on his forehead. 

“It’s true as gospel,” he said. “He’s in danger. I 
dan’t tell you what it is. But I’ll take my dying oath it’s 




The Letter 157 

true. It’s up to you to warn him, and if you don’t— 
well, you’ll regret it all your life, that’s all.” 

He paused and wiped his forehead on his shirt-sleeve. 
She stood and looked at him, conscious ol a feeling of 
dread that made her physically cold. What was the 
meaning of these tumults and warnings, these mysterious 
under-currents that seemed to be perpetually drawing her 
towards tragedy? What was the direful secret of this 
sinister house ? 

Oliver saw her distress, and dismissed his own with a 
jerk. '‘Don’t be upset!” he said. “There’s no harm 
done yet—not so far as I know. But don’t let him hang 
round any longer! If Arthur were to get a sight of him 
—” He broke off. “That’s all. Hope we shall see you 
in the field again to-morrow. It’s good weather for har¬ 
vesting. We ought to be carrying by the end of the week 
if it lasts.” 

She knew from his tone that he was speaking for the 
benefit of a third person, but she did not turn her head to 
look. She knew without that that Arthur was standing 
at the end of the passage, and she began to ascend the 
stairs with a distinct feeling that escape was imperative. 
Oliver went away into the kitchen, and she rounded the 
curve of the old staircase and began to quicken her pace. 
But her knees were so weak and her breathing so short 
that she thought she would never reach the top. Then, 
with a sudden start of consternation, she heard the tread 
of Arthur’s feet below, and knew that he was coming 
up behind her. 

She mustered all her strength then in desperation, for 
she felt she could not face him at that moment; and gasp¬ 
ing, stumbling, unnerved, she practically fled before 
him. 

The door of her room stood open, but she lacked the 


158 


Tetherstones 


power to close it as she entered. She could only stagger 
to the nearest chair and fall into it, panting. 

He came on up the stairs. She heard his feet upon the 
bare oak. He reached the open door and stopped. 

“Miss Thorold!” he said. 

Then he must have seen her condition, for he came in 
without further ceremony. 

“You’ve been frightened,” he said. 

She could not answer him because of the wild palpi¬ 
tation of her heart. He bent over her; then suddenly 
knelt beside her, and she felt the strong grip of his hand 
on liers. 

“There’s nothing to frighten you,” he said, in his deep 
voice, and she knew that for some reason he was moved. 

She leaned her head against the back of the chair, 
battling with her weakness. “I am not very strong yet,” 
she managed to say. 

“I know—I know! You’ll be better presently. Don’t 
take any notice of these trifles!” 

The gentleness of his voice amazed her; it had the 
sound of a half-suppressed appeal, and something within 
her stirred in answer. 

“You are very good to me,” she said. 

“Good! To you!” There was almost a passionate 
note in his reply. His grip upon her hand tightened, and 
then in a moment he seemed to control himself, and very 
slowly he set her free and rose. “What I wanted to say 
to you,” he said, “is just that I am sorry that you should 
have been upset in any way by any unfortunate family 
disagreements. I don’t know what Oliver was saying 
to you on the subject; he probably told you that they are 
by no means unusual. But please take my word for it 
that it shall not happen again if I can possibly prevent it, 
and make allowances where you can!” 


The Letter 


i59 


The appeal was unmistakable this time, and again that 
sense of comradeship possessed her in spite of all mis¬ 
giving. She smiled at him without speaking, and some¬ 
how his answering smile sent a quick thrill to her heart. 

He turned to go, then abruptly wheeled back to her. 
“One thing more! I’ve found your letter—the one you 
lost in the garden. Do you want it back, or may I 
destroy it?” 

She gave a gasp of surprise. “You have found it? 
Where—where was it?” 

“In the garden,” he repeated, with a certain dogged¬ 
ness. 

She looked up at him. “Where is it now ?” 

“In my pocket,” he said. “Do you want it?” 

“I think I had better have it,” she said. 

“You are sure?” His eyes met hers with the old chal¬ 
lenging look, and her own fell beneath them. 

Nevertheless she held out her hand. “Please!” she 
said. 

The next moment she found the missing letter thrust 
into her fingers, but she did not even look at it. She was 
staring at his retreating figure as he went out and closed 
the door sharply behind him. 


CHAPTER X 


REVELATION 

She had it in her hand at last—that letter which had 
caused her so much doubt and anxiety. She sat there 
holding it after the closing of the door, wondering, 
puzzled, troubled. He had found it—he must have found 
it—under the cedar-tree the night before. Why had he 
kept it back? Or, having kept it, why did he give it to 
her now? Suspicion stabbed her, and she turned the 
envelope over. Had it been opened? It was impossible 
to say. It had obviously been rubbed from having been 
carried in a pocket; but there was no sign of weather- 
stain upon it. She was instantly convinced that it had 
not lain out all night. Yet why had he kept it ? 

An odd thought came to her, born of that strange new 
note of appeal that she had begun to hear in his voice— 
a thought which sent the blood to her face in a great wave 
and for a moment almost dazed her. Was it jealousy that 
had prompted him? He had known that her letter had 
caused her agitation, that it was from another man. He 
had almost openly done his best to counteract that other 
man’s influence upon her. He had taken her to the 
Stones only that morning in the hope of inducing her 
to be frank with him regarding her adventure there. It 
was not curiosity—it could not be mere curiosity—that 
160 


Revelation 


161 


had actuated him. She recalled his behaviour of the night 
before when he had carried her in, how he had bluntly 
given her to understand that his own desire was to keep 
her there as long as possible. And then Oliver’s warn¬ 
ing flashed upon her, illuminating all the rest. With a 
gasp she faced the situation, suspicion merging into cer¬ 
tainty, amazing but irrefutable. He cared for her, this 
extraordinary man who ruled at Tetherstones with so 
heavy a hand. For some reason wholly inexplicable to 
her, his fancy had lighted upon her—just as had Mon¬ 
tague Rotherby’s in an idle hour. But with what a differ¬ 
ence! It was at this point that Frances arose and went 
unsteadily to her dressing-table to lean upon it and stare 
in stupefaction at her own reflection. Had all the world 
gone mad? What on earth did they see in her—the 
faded, the drab, the tired? She gazed for a long, breath¬ 
less space, and slowly her eyes widened. What did she 
see in herself? Was there not something present here 
that she had never seen before? What was it? What 
was it? A sudden tremor went through her, and she 
drew back. 

What were those words he had said to her that morn¬ 
ing? Vividly the memory rushed upon her, and his eyes 
—the look in his eyes—as they had rested upon her. . . . 
“You were not intended for a slave.” 

Was it this that they saw in her—a slave who had 
broken free—her shackles in the dust? Was it this that 
she had suddenly seen in herself? 

She was quivering from head to foot. A feeling of 
giddiness came upon her, and she dropped down upon 
the edge of the bed. Something had frightened her, badly 
frightened her,—something wholly apart from the 
gloomy secrets of Tetherstones, the undercurrent of re¬ 
bellion that existed there, the muttered warnings, the ele- 


162 


Tethers tones 


ment of violence barely masked—something that had 
looked at her out of her own eyes—something that 
throbbed very deeply in her own heart—a thing so widely 
different from anything she had ever know before that 
she was amazed, that she was .actually terrified, beyond 
thought or speech. 

It was this that had stirred within her in answer to 
that unspoken appeal for understanding. It was this 
that had inspired that sense of comradeship within her. 
She had called it intuition, sympathy. But now—she 
knew now that it had another name. And what was she 
going to do? How was she going to treat this amazing 
thing? Was she prepared to let it grow and become 
great? Was she prepared to yield herself to it, her 
cherished independence, her very life, and become a slave 
again? Was she going to stake all she had—all that the 
unknown future might hold for her—upon one fatal 
throw? To be absorbed into this tragic atmosphere, to 
feel the ground unstable beneath her feet, to hear the 
grim clash of antagonisms shattering the peace, to be in 
bondage to this man of harsh judgments and unrestrained 
passions,—to be a slave again, perhaps to cower as Lucy 
had cowered from his ungoverned fury! But no! She 
would never do v that! Sheer pride came to her aid, and 
she straightened herself with a little smile of self-ridicule. 
Why was she permitting this panic? She knew herself 
well enough to be quite sure she would never do that. 

“I believe I could manage him alone,” she reflected. 
“But in this atmosphere of servitude and oppression— 
well, of course—” she laughed a faint laugh and felt the 
better for it—“any man would be bound to become a ty¬ 
rant—like the Bishop—only worse.” Her letter slipped 
from her grasp, and she stooped to recover it. Something 
of the old official attitude was hers as she sat up again and 


Revelation 


163 

prepared to open it. “Well, we will put a stop to this 
anyhow,” she said with decision. “And then we must 
consider the best and safest way of leaving Tetherstones 
without giving rise to foolish conjecture.” 

Again that odd little smile of hers tilted her lips. The 
feeling of dismay had gone. 

“I shall get over it all right,” she said. “It’s a pity 
of course, but it isn’t big enough yet to hurt me much. 
If I had been younger—” she lifted her head suddenly— 
“but dash it, I’m not so old as that. If he wants me 
he must get rid of his retinue of slaves and take the 
trouble to win me. But to add me to the number—make 
me the chief one at that—no, no, no!” She shook her 
head in humorous negation. “It isn’t good enough, my 
dear man. Love doesn’t thrive in that soil.” 

But even as she said it, a little gibing voice rose up in 
her soul and mocked her. Who was she to say from what 
small beginnings Love the Immortal might spring ? Like 
the wonderful, purple flower on the grey stone arch in 
the Palace garden that no human hand had ever planted! 

She opened her letter almost absent-mindedly, and 
began to read it with an interest as impersonal as she 
would have bestowed upon the letter of an employer. 

“Circe—beloved enchantress,” so the letter ran. “Am 
I to have no word from you ? It is getting urgent, and I 
have news for you. First, let me make a confession! 
When I left you that evening at the cottage, I stole one 
of your sketches—the one of the stepping-stones. I sent 
it to a friend of mine in town, and have to-day received 
it back. He speaks very highly of it, and declares you 
have a living in your talent, if not a fortune. How does 
that appeal to you? The old woman tells me you are 
better, but that you are staying on at Tetherstones. I 


Tetherstones 


164 

must see you somewhere where we can talk undisturbed. 
Will you come to the Stones to-night at ten? I will wait 
for you there. 

“Yours with all my love as ever. M. R.” 

So that was why he had written a second time! He 
had news for her. Such news as she had little expected 
—news that made her heart leap wildly. This was free¬ 
dom. This was deliverance. Strange that they should 
have come to her by his hand! 

No further doubt existed in her mind with regard to 
meeting him. She would certainly meet him. She put 
her letter away with a business-like precision that wholly 
banished her agitation. It was the best tonic that she 
could possibly have received. She wondered what had 
made him take the trouble, and the thought of being under 
an obligation to him oppressed her for a time, but she 
thrust it away from her. She could not afford to be too 
scrupulous in this particular. To make her own living 
successfully seemed to her at that moment the goal of all 
desire. 

The arrival of Nell with her tray diverted her thoughts. 
Nell’s face was flushed, her eyes round and indignant. 

“A nice family of wild beasts you must think us!” she 
said, as she dumped the tray on a corner of the dressing- 
table. “I suppose you’re making plans to leave us by the 
next train. It’s enough to make you.” 

Frances looked at her, and saw that she was near to 
angry tears. “My dear child,” she said gently, “please 
put that idea quite out of your mind! When I go—and 
it will probably be soon now that I am so much better— 
it won’t be with any feelings of that sort. It will only 
be with the very warmest gratitude to you all for your 
goodness to me.” 


Revelation 


165 


“Do you mean that?” said Nell. 

“Of course I mean it,” Frances said. 

“Well, I’m glad—awfully glad.” The girl spoke with 
honest feeling. “We’re all so fond of you, Miss Thorold, 
and we do do our best to make you happy. It isn’t our 
fault that —that—” She checked herself. “I expect you 
understand that,” she ended more calmly. 

“I know you are all much too kind to me,” Frances 
said. 

“We’re not!” said Nell stoutly. “We’d do anything 
for you. And we hate you to think us rough and ill- 
mannered. It’s Arthur’s fault if you do, but even he 
means well.” 

“But, my dear, I don’t,” Frances protested. 

“Sure?” said Nell. 

“Yes, quite sure.” Frances laid a friendly hand on 
her arm. “I couldn’t think anything horrid of you if I 
tried,” she said. 

“Thank you,” said Nell somewhat pathetically. “It’s 
rather hard to be judged by one’s men-folk, I sometimes 
think. They can be such beasts.” 

“I expect it depends how you take them,” said Frances 
practically. 

Nell looked at her with a hint of envy. “It’s all right 
for you,” she said. “You’re not under any man’s 
heel.” 

“I have been,” said Frances, with a sudden memory 
of the Bishop. “But I never shall be again.” 

“You will be if you marry,” said Nell. 

“Oh, I don’t think so,” smiled Frances. “But as I 
am not going to marry, that is beside the point.” 

“How nice to be sure you don’t want to!” said the 
girl with a sigh. 

Whereat Frances laughed with a curious lighthearted- 


Tetherstones 


166 

ness. “I didn’t say that, did I? But women of my age 
think twice before they sign away their liberty.” 

“Your age!” Nell stared. “Why, I thought you were 
quite young!” she said, then blushed violently and turned 
to go. “Oh, I suppose I oughtn’t to have said that—but 
it’s true!” 

The door closed behind her upon the words, and 
Frances was left still laughing. “What can have come 
to them all?” she said. “Me—young! If I am, it’s 
something in the air that has made me so. I never used 
to be!” 

And then a fantastic thought came to her, checking 
her laughter. She had never been young before. She 
had never had time to be young. Could it be possible 
that for her, here at Tetherstones, life had but just 
begun? If so—if so—was she right to turn away from 
aught that life might have to offer? 


CHAPTER XI 


FAILURE 

Well as she knew the way to the Stones from the 
farm, she had never trodden it save on that one occasion 
in the fog when Ruth had been her guide. They were 
approached by a steep and winding lane that led up be¬ 
tween high banks to the still steeper track on the open 
moor that ran directly to them. The whole distance could 
not be more than half-a-mile, she reflected, as she sat in 
her room that evening, considering the task that lay 
before her. 

She hoped to accomplish it unobserved, for she knew 
that the entire household retired by nine, and some of its 
members even before that hour in view of the early rising 
that the farm work entailed; and since she had no in¬ 
tention of allowing her interview with Rotherby to be 
unduly prolonged, she anticipated that the whole ad¬ 
venture need not take more than half-an-hour or at the 
most three-quarters. She intended to assume an attitude 
so prosaically business-like that he would find it impos¬ 
sible to return, or even to attempt to return, to their 
former relations. In fact, she felt herself to be armed 
at every point and ready for him. For she felt neither 
attraction nor repulsion for him now, merely a sort of 
cold-blooded, wholly impersonal, interest in him as a step¬ 
ping-stone to that independence which was the dream of 
her life. It seemed he could help her; therefore she was 
167 


Tetherstones 


168 

not in a position to throw him aside. But as a man she 
scarcely regarded him at all. He had become no more 
than the medium for the attainment of her ambition— 
the stepping-stone to ambition—no more than that. How 
often in life do we thus deceive ourselves, imagining our¬ 
selves free and not discerning the bonds of our slavery? 

The coming of Dolly at nine o’clock was usually the 
signal of the general retirement of the rest of the family, 
but Dolly was a little late that night. She and Milly had 
been absent for the whole day and they evidently had a 
good deal to talk about. When Dolly came to her eventu¬ 
ally, it was nearly half-an-hour later than usual. Frances 
was sitting by her open window, watching the moon rise. 

“So you’re not in bed yet!” said Dolly. “I was afraid 
you would be tired of waiting.” 

“Oh, no,” Frances said. “I can quite easily put myself 
to bed, thank you. Have you had a good day? Has all 
gone well?” 

“Oh, yes, on the whole. We were rather surprised to 
come upon Oliver in Fordestown on our way back. It 
isn’t like him to absent himself without permission, 
especially at such a time as harvest. Of course we thought 
Arthur had given him leave. Did you know he was 
going?” 

“I?” said Frances, and stared for a moment in amaze¬ 
ment; then suddenly remembered the reason of his go¬ 
ing and felt the unwelcome knowledge burn her. “What 
makes you ask?” she said, after a moment. 

“Oh, nothing.” Dolly came to her to take down her 
hair. “Ruth said he was talking to you just before he 
went, that was all. I wondered if possibly he might 
have mentioned what he was going to do and why. It 
doesn’t matter in the least. There will probably be a 
row when he comes back, that’s all. He generally man- 


Failure 169 

ages to get round Arthur, but I don’t think he will this 
time.” 

“I should like to do my hair myself to-night,” said 
Frances. “Thank you very much. I am really strong 
enough now, and I am sure you must be very tired after 
your long day.” 

“Just as you like,” said Dolly. “I am not tired at all. 
In fact, if it weren’t for getting up in the morning, I 
should feel inclined to sit up and see what happens.” 

“But what can happen?” questioned Frances quickly. 

Dolly laughed briefly. “Well, he can find himself 
locked out for the night, that’s- all—unless Arthur sits 
up for him. But I should hardly think he’ll do that. He 
has got to be up early himself.” 

“What will he do if he is locked out?” asked Frances. 

“Probably one of the girls—Maggie—would let him in 
if the coast were clear. If not, he would have to sleep out 
somewhere. That wouldn’t kill him,” said Dolly cheer¬ 
fully. “Well, if you are sure you can manage all right— 
Have you had a good day ?” 

“Quite, thank you,” said Frances. “Good night! I 
am feeling much stronger than I was and quite able to 
put myself to bed.” 

“That’s all right,’’said Dolly. “It’s much pleasanter 
to do for oneself, isn’t it?” 

She went, and Frances was once more alone. She 
blew out the candle that Dolly had lighted and settled 
down again to wait. 

Dolly’s news was disquieting. She had hoped that all 
the household would have been wrapped in slumber be¬ 
fore the time arrived for her own expedition, but it 
seemed that this was not to be. She wondered how she 
would manage to elude observation. She hated the 
thought of creeping out by stealth, but there seemed to 


iyo 


Tetherstones 


be no help for it. Time was getting short, and if Arthur 
proposed to sit up for the defaulter she would have no 
choice but to risk it. 

Slowly the harvest moon mounted in the sky. The 
boughs of the cedar-tree stood out black against the 
radiance. She rose at last and wrapped her shawl about 
her. The night was warm, and she would not be long. 
She had not heard Arthur pass her door, so she concluded 
that he was still in the kitchen. She had thought the 
whole matter out and decided upon her plan of action. 
There was a casement window in the parlour, easily 
opened and near the ground. She would not need to 
pass the kitchen to reach this room, and only the window 
of the old man’s study overlooked that corner of the 
garden. She felt sure that he would have retired long 
since, and even if he had not, he was the last person in 
the world to act the spy. 

She smiled to herself as cautiously she opened her door. 
A certain spirit of adventure had entered into her; her 
brain was cool, her nerves steady. She was even con¬ 
scious of a mischievous feeling of elation. It seemed 
so long since she had taken any step on her own initiative. 
She realized that the general sense of bondage had begun 
to oppress her also. 

The passage was in darkness, but a light was dimly 
burning at the foot of the stairs. Arthur was sitting up, 
then. She wondered what would happen when Oliver 
returned, if there would be high words between the two 
men, if Oliver would manage to vindicate himself, or 
carry the situation with a high hand as on the previous 
occasion which she had witnessed. Then Oliver’s warn¬ 
ing came back upon her, his urgent words, his barely 
disguised agitation. He had been very much in earnest 
when he had counselled her to dismiss Rotherby. What 


Failure 


171 

did it all mean, she wondered? Perhaps Rotherby him¬ 
self might be able to throw light upon the mystery. 

She crept to the head of the stairs and paused. As she 
did so, she heard the soft opening of a door a few yards 
behind her, and a chink of light gleamed along the pas¬ 
sage. It was impossible to return to her room unob¬ 
served, but she was dressed in grey and the shawl she 
wore was a dark one. She knew herself to be invisible 
against the wall in the gloom, and she stood up against it 
and waited. 

In a second or two a white-clad figure stole out, came 
bare-footed almost as far as her hiding-place, but stopped 
just short of it and hung over the banisters to listen. 
Frances stood rigid, not daring to breathe. In a moment 
there came a faint sob from the bending figure so close 
to her, and a sharp dart of compassion went through 
Frances. She was actually on the verge of betraying 
herself when there came another sound from along the 
passage, the creak of footsteps, a piercing whisper— 
Elsie’s:—‘‘Maggie, what are you doing there? Maggie, 
come back to bed! We’ll never wake in time to get the 
cows milked if you don’t.” 

Another figure came sturdily into view with the words, 
and Maggie turned sharply back to meet it. 

“Oh, Elsie, I thought you were asleep!” she said. 

“I was,” said Elsie. “And then I found you weren’t 
there. For goodness’ sake, be sensible and come to bed! 
What is the good of hanging about out here?” 

“I’m worried about Oliver,” Maggie said rather 
piteously. “Will there be a row, do you think?” 

“Good gracious, I don’t know,” said Elsie. “Don’t 
care either. Oliver’s quite capable of taking care of him¬ 
self. If he isn’t—well, I’ve no use for him. Come 
along to bed, do, and don’t make a fuss about nothing!” 


172 


Tetherstones 


“Arthur was in a bad mood this evening,” protested 
Maggie. “I expect that’s why Oliver went without ask¬ 
ing. He knew it wouldn’t be any good. Oh, I wish he 
hadn’t done it. I’m so afraid-” 

She left the sentence unfinished, for suddenly there 
sounded a movement from below, followed by the tread 
of a man’s feet on the stairs. 

“Come on!” said Elsie, and the two girls fled back to 
their room. 

The impulse to follow their example seized upon Fran¬ 
ces, but in a moment she restrained it. The chances were 
very much against his seeing her, and she had fled from 
him once that day. Pride came to the aid of her courage, 
and she remained where she was. 

He came up the stairs heavily, as if weary. He car¬ 
ried no light, but he had not extinguished the glimmer 
below. Presumably he had left this for Oliver’s benefit. 
Further along the passage, the moonlight filtered in 
through a latticed window, but the stairs themselves were 
in almost complete darkness. 

Slowly he ascended them. He was close to her now, 
and involuntarily she shrank from him, pressing harder 
against the wall. She felt her heart begin to beat fast 
and loud, and wondered if he would hear it in the silence. 
But he came on and passed her without a sign. Then, 
as she still stood there palpitating against the wall, she 
heard him go deliberately along the passage to the door 
through which the two girls had just retreated, and open 
it without ceremony. 

His voice come to her where she stood. “If either 
of you comes out again to-night, there’ll be trouble, so 
take warning and stay where you are!” 

He shut the door again without waiting for any reply 
and turned aside into his own room. 



Failure 


i 73 


It was her opportunity and she seized it. Swiftly she 
gathered herself together, stood a second poised and 
listening, then, hearing nothing, began to descend the 
stairs. 

They creaked beneath her feet notwithstanding her 
utmost caution, but no sound came to her from above, and 
she went on with increasing rapidity. 

Reaching the foot, she discovered that the glimmer of 
light came from the half-open kitchen door. Evidently a 
lamp was burning within, and that seemed to indicate 
that Arthur meant to return. But her way lay in the 
opposite direction, and she slipped into the dark passage 
that led to the parlour. 

She thought she knew the place by heart, but there 
was one thing she had forgotten. Half-way to the par¬ 
lour, in an angle of the wall, there stood an old oak 
settle, and into this she suddenly ran headlong. The 
settle scraped on the stone floor with the force of the 
impact, and she herself fell over it with arms out¬ 
stretched, bruised and half-stunned with the violence of 
the collision. It all took place so rapidly, and her dismay 
was such, that she scarcely knew what had happened to 
her ere the sound of feet on the stairs told her that she 
was discovered. She sank down in a quivering heap on 
the floor, gasping and helpless, no longer attempting any 
concealment. And in another moment Arthur had 
reached her, was bending over her, feeling for her, lift¬ 
ing her. 

She gave herself into his hold with a curious sense of 
fatalism. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE FIRES OF HELL 

She had never before so fully realized the grim, un¬ 
compromising strength of the man as at that moment. 
The day before he had lifted and borne her as though 
she had been a child. To-night she was a pigmy in the 
grasp of a giant. 

He carried her without words to the kitchen and set 
her down there in the leathern arm-chair. She had a 
glimpse of his face as he did so, and it was as it had been 
earlier in the day—a mask of anger. 

He did not speak to her, but went to a cupboard in 
the wall and took therefrom a bottle and a glass. Weak 
and trembling from her fall, she watched him pour out 
a small dose of spirit and add thereto water from a jug 
on the dresser. Then he came back to her, stooped and 
put it to her lips. His arm was behind her head as she 
drank. She felt the strong support of it, the compulsion 
of the hand that held the glass. But she could not raise 
her eyes to his. She drank in mute submission. 

The dose steadied her, and she sat up. His silence 
oppressed her like a crushing weight. She felt it must be 
broken at all costs. 

“I am so sorry to have given you this trouble,” she 
said. “You will think me very strange, but I am afraid 
174 


The Fires of Hell 


i 75 


I can’t explain anything. I will go back to my room.” 

He set down the glass with decision and spoke. “I 
am sorry to appear unreasonable—or anything else un¬ 
pleasant. But I am afraid I can’t let you go back to your 
room at present.” 

She turned and gazed at him. “What on earth do you 
mean ?” 

His look came to her, and his anger seemed to smite 
her as with physical force. “My reasons—like yours— 
won’t bear explanation,” he said. 

She gripped the arms of her chair. Had she heard him 
aright? The thing was unbelievable. “Are you mad?” 
she said. 

He was standing squarely in front of her. He smiled 
—a smile that turned her cold. “That I can’t tell you. 
What is madness? I know I have got you here—in my 
power. And I know I mean to keep you. If that is 
madness, well—” he lifted his shoulders slightly, the 
old characteristic movement—“then I am mad.” 

She stared at him in growing apprehension. Was the 
man sober? The doubt flashed through her mind and 
vanished. He was so deadly calm in his anger. He had 
locked away his fury as if it were a flaming furnace be¬ 
hind iron doors. But his strength was terrible, unspar¬ 
ing. It menaced her, whichever way she turned. 

But her spirit was reviving. It was not her way to 
submit meekly to the mastery of any man. Very sud¬ 
denly she rose and faced him. “This is more than I 
will endure,” she said, speaking briefly and clearly. 
“Nothing on earth shall keep me in this room against my 
will!” 

She needed to pass him to reach the door into the pas¬ 
sage. He stood squarely in her path. She heard him 
draw a hard breath. 


176 


Tetherstones 


“There is such a thing as brute force/' he said. 

She looked him straight in the eyes. “You wouldn’t 
dare!” 

His eyes leaped to flame, holding hers. “Don’t tempt 
me!” he said, between his teeth. 

That checked her for a moment. Something seemed 
to clutch at her heart. Then pride leaped up full-armed, 
and she flung it from her. She laughed in his face. 

“Do you think you are going to treat me as one of 
your slaves ?” she said contemptuously, and made to pass 
him. 

He flung out an arm before her. His voice came, low 
and passionate. It was as if the locked doors were 
opening. She felt the scorching heat behind. 

“If you attempt to pass me—you do it at your own 
risk,” he said. 

She stopped. His eyes seemed to be consuming her. 
In spite of herself, she shrank, averting her own. 

“At your own risk,” he said again, and very slowly 
his arm fell. 

There followed a silence that was somehow appalling. 
She stood as one paralysed. She would have returned to 
her chair, but lacked the strength. So he was in earn¬ 
est, this extraordinary man. He actually meant to hold 
her against her will. And wherefore? She almost chal¬ 
lenged him with the question, but something held her 
back—perhaps it was the consciousness of that intolera¬ 
ble heat of which she had been aware with the utterance 
of his last words. 

She spoke at length. “I don’t understand you. What 
is the matter?” 

He made a harsh sound in his throat; it was as though 
he choked a laugh. “Do you really wish me to be more 
explicit? If so, by all means let us drop all subterfuge 


The Fires of Hell 


177 


and come down to bare facts! Why are you trying to 
creep out of the house by stealth? Answer me!” 

It was he then who meant to force a battle. The sud¬ 
den knowledge gave her back her courage, but she knew 
it for the courage of desperation. 

She lifted her head and faced him. “What is that to 
you? Does the fact that I have been your guest—your 
helpless and involuntary guest—entitle you to control 
my movements or to demand an account of them? I 
resent your attitude, and I absolutely repudiate your 
authority. You may keep me here against my will—if 
you are coward enough. But you will never—however 
long you wait—induce me to confide my affairs to you. 
And let me tell you this! When I leave this house, I 
shall never—no, never—enter it again!” 

Fiercely she flung the words, answering challenge with 
challenge, realizing that it was only by launching her¬ 
self on the torrent of her anger that she could hope to 
make any headway against him. For he stood in her 
path like an opposing force, waiting to hurl her back. 

Panting, she ceased to speak. The effort of her defi¬ 
ance was beginning to cost her dear. Almost by instinct 
she groped for the table and supported herself against it, 
conscious of a whirling tumult in her brain that she was 
powerless to still. Too late she realized that the power 
to which she had entrusted herself had betrayed her. 

She saw it in his face—the sudden mockery that 
gleamed in his eyes. He spoke, and his words cut with 
a stabbing accuracy straight through the armour of her 
indignation. “Had I known—what I now know,” he 
said, “What I might have known from the beginning 
from the manner of your coming, I certainly would not 
have entertained you in this house. I have my sisters to 
think off” 


i 7 8 


Tetherstones 


“Ah!” she said, and no more; for words failed her. 
The horror f it overwhelmed her utterly and completely. 
It seemed to her that she had never known the meaning 
of pain until that moment—pain that bereft her of all 
normal self-control—pain that made her gasp in sheer 
agony. 

The walls of the room seemed to be closing in upon 
her. She felt her feet slip away from under her. De¬ 
sperately she tried to recover her balance, failed, sought 
to cling to the table but felt her hands could find no hold 
upon the hard wood. 

And then there came the consciousness of his arms 
surrounding her. He lifted her, he held her to him, and 
she felt again the awful flame of his look, consuming her. 

“And I loved you!” he said. “I—loved you!” 

She fought against him breathlessly, feeling that if his 
lips touched hers life would never be endurable again. 
But he mastered her without apparent effort. He con¬ 
quered her slowly, with a fiendish precision that was as 
iron to her soul. With that dreadful smile upon his face 
he overcame her spasmodic struggles for freedom. He 
kissed her, and by his kiss he quelled her resistance; for 
she felt the fires of hell, and fainted in his hold. 


& 


1 


CHAPTER XIII 

ESCAPE 

Was it a dream—a nightmare of her fevered brain? 
Was she back again in the tortures of her long illness, 
with Lucy and Nell whispering behind the screen, wonder¬ 
ing how soon the end would come? Had she imagined 
that dreadful struggle against overwhelming odds? If 
so, why was she lying here, gazing at the fitful firelight 
on the oak rafters of the kitchen instead of on her bed 
upstairs? Or was this too a dream—a strange, illogical 
fantasy of her diseased imaginings ? 

She was very tired—that much she knew—sick with 
long delirium or too great exertion. Her limbs were as 
lead. And at the back of her mind there hovered that 
dreadful shadow—was it memory? Was it illusion?— 
that filled her with a sense of terror indescribable. 

But consciousness was returning. Her brain was grop¬ 
ing for the truth, and the truth was coming to her grad¬ 
ually, inevitably, inexorably. She remembered her flight 
down the stairs, her headlong fall in the passage. She 
remembered the coming of Arthur, the brief interview 
in the kitchen, his terrible unspoken accusation. She 
remembered his kiss. . . . 

Again the anguish burned her soul; she thrust it from 
her with a sick shudder. It was more than she could 
bear. 


179 


Tetherstones 


180 

Then she awoke to the fact that she was lying on the 
stones before the fire with a man’s coat spread under her. 
Trembling, she raised herself and found she was alone. 

The moonlight filtered in through the bars of the un¬ 
shuttered window, mingling with the firelight. The lamp 
that had burned on the dresser was gone. She found the 
table within her reach and dragged herself up by it, but it 
was many seconds before she mustered strength to stand 
alone. 

At last with difficulty she made her way to the door 
that led into the passage, turned the handle and found it 
locked. Her heart stirred oddly within her like a stricken 
thing too weak for violent emotion. She crept round the 
room to the door into the yard. This also was locked 
and the key gone. The window was barred. She was a 
prisoner. 

She went to the window and stood before it. It looked 
on to thick laurel bushes that successfully screened the 
farm-yard from view. Standing thus, there came to her 
a sudden sound across the stillness of the night, a sound 
that seemed to galvanize her to a more vivid conscious¬ 
ness of tragedy—the report of a gun. It was followed 
immediately by another, and then the silence fell again— 
a silence that could be felt. Tensely, with every nerve 
stretched, she listened, but though her ears sang with the 
effort she heard no more. The moonlight and the silence 
possessed the world. 

She began to think of the Stones, of Rotherby and his 
fruitless vigil, of Oliver. And then—a thing of terror 
leaping out of the darkness—another thought seized upon 
her. Oliver’s warning—Rotherby’s danger—the gun¬ 
shot she had just heard. Following that, came the 
memory of her letter, delayed and at length delivered. 
That brought illumination. The letter had been opened 


Escape 181 

and read. It was from that letter that Arthur had 
framed his conclusions. Recalling it, she realized that it 
had been couched in the terms of a lover. But what vile 
impulse had induced him to open it ? And by what means 
had Oliver become aware of the danger? Her brain was 
alert now and leaping from point to point with amaz¬ 
ing rapidity. Oliver’s knowledge had come from Ruth. 
Then there was some reason apart from that letter to 
herself for which Montague Rotherby was accounted an 
enemy. Remembering Oliver’s very obvious anxiety, she 
marvelled, seeking for an explanation. Was he aware of 
Arthur’s passion for herself ? Had he really feared that 
jealousy might drive him to extremes? She found her¬ 
self shivering again. What had actually happened ? Had 
Rotherby been surprised at the Stones, waiting for her? 
Had Arthur- 

A feeling of physical sickness came upon her so over¬ 
whelmingly that she had to sit down to combat it. 

Slowly the minutes crawled away, and again through 
her fainting soul there beat the old, throbbing prayer: 
“From all evil and mischief, from sin, from the crafts 
and assaults of the devil, Good Lord deliver us.” 

Her lips were still repeating the words mechanically 
when through the dreadful stillness there came at length 
a sound—the soft trying of the handle and then the turn¬ 
ing of the key. 

Frances raised her head. In that night of dreadful 
happenings she had not expected deliverance. The com¬ 
ing of it was like a dream. A small white figure stood 
on the threshold, barefooted, with face upraised, listen¬ 
ing- 

“Are you here?” whispered a childish voice. 

“My dear!” Frances said. 

The little figure came forward. The moonlight fell 



Tetherstones 


182 

upon the upturned, flower-like face. “Please will you 
take me to sleep with you to-night ?” she said. 

Strength came back to Frances. The instinct to pro¬ 
tect awoke within her, reviving her. She got up and 
went to the child. 

“What made you come to me here, Rosebud?” she 
said. 

“I thought you called me,” Ruth answered. “But 
perhaps it was a dream. I thought you were frightened, 
as you were that night at the Stones. You are very cold. 
Are you frightened?” 

“I have been,” Frances said. 

Ruth pressed close to her. “Has someone been unkind 
to you? Is it—is it Uncle Arthur?” 

But Frances could not answer her. She was conscious 
of a weight of tears at her heart to which she dared not 
give vent. 

“Shall we go upstairs?” said Ruth, with soft fingers 
entwined in hers. “And perhaps you will be able to 
sleep.” 

She yielded to the child’s guidance as she had yielded 
before without hesitation or misgiving. They went out 
into the passage. But here a sudden sound made her 
pause—it was the opening of the door that led into the 
garden. 

Ruth pulled at her hand. “It is only Grandpa. He is 
always late to bed.” 

But Frances drew back sharply. “You run up, darl¬ 
ing!” she whispered. “I can’t come yet.” 

“Oh, please come!” said little Ruth. 

But though she heard a piteous note in the child’s 
voice, she could not. She freed her hand from Ruth’s 
clasp. “Run up!” she repeated. “I will come afterwards 
—if I can.” 


183 


Escape 

What impulse it was that urged her she could not have 
said, but it was too strong to be resisted. She saw Ruth 
start obediently but somewhat forlornly up the stairs, 
and she drew herself back into a deep recess under the 
staircase and crouched there, not breathing. 

Ruth was right. It was the old man who had entered. 
She discerned him dimly as he came up the passage, mov¬ 
ing with the weary gait of age. He paused at the kitchen- 
door as though he were listening, and she shrank more 
closely into her hiding-place, dreading discovery. But 
in a moment he pushed open the door and entered, clos¬ 
ing it behind him. 

Then the impulse to escape came to her, or perhaps it 
had been there, dormant against her breathless heart, the 
whole time. She saw the place as a monstrous prison, 
stone-walled and terrible, herself a captive guarded on all 
sides, helpless, beaten by circumstances, broken by Fate. 
And then this chance—this solitary chance of freedom. 

Swiftly upon the closing of that door, she left her re¬ 
treat, stole along the passage to the door, lifted the latch 
and was out upon the brick path in the moonlight. 

The hollyhocks looked tall and ghostly; the garden lay 
before her as if asleep. She caught her shawl about her, 
and fled along the narrow path. She reached the door 
in the wall, and opening it peered forth. There was no 
weakness about her now. She was inspired by the 
strength that is borne of utter need. 

She saw no one, and so slipped out on to the lawn by 
the bed of mignonette in front of the dairy-window. 
The scent of it rose up in the night like incense. As a 
thief she crept along in the shadow of the house to the 
gate that led into the farmyard. 

And here Roger greeted her with loud yells of delight 
from his kennel. She cowered back against the wall, 


184 


Tetherstones 


but he continued to cheer and make merry over her un¬ 
expected appearance for many seconds, till the conviction 
that his enthusiasm had failed to elicit any response from 
her suddenly dawned upon him, and he broke into howls 
of disappointment, punctuated with urgent whines of 
encouragement and persuasion. 

Discovery seemed inevitable, and the courage of despair 
entered into Frances. Later she marvelled at herself, 
but at the time she was scarcely aware of making any 
effort, either mental or physical. Quite suddenly, as if 
propelled by a force outside her, she found herself calmly 
walking forward to the gate. It opened at her touch so 
easily that it might have been opened for her, and she 
walked through, hearing it swing creaking behind her 
between the renewed shouts of jubilation from Roger. 

She passed him by, looking neither to right nor left, 
neither hastening nor lingering, hearing his wails of 
grief again behind her as she went. She reached the 
further gate and found it stood open to the lane. Very 
steadily she passed through and began to walk down the 
hill between the steep banks. The scent of honeysuckle 
came to her here, so overpoweringly that she caught her 
breath with an odd feeling of hurt. 

Then—and it seemed to her later that this was the 
very thing she had been expecting—the one thing for 
which she had come—there sounded on the hill behind 
her the whirr of an engine, the slipping of wheels in the 
mud. Quite calmly still she turned and faced the lights 
of a small car coming rapidly down upon her. She did not 
know how it happened, or how near she was to death,— 
at that moment it would not have interested her to know 
—but she heard a shout and the sharp grinding of a 
brake applied to the utmost, followed by the ominous 
sound of locked wheels that grated to a standstill within 


i8 5 


Escape 

a yard of her. Afterwards she remembered thinking 
that that hot, protesting engine was like a dragon baulked 
of its prey. 

“Who is it?” cried a man’s voice. “What the devil 
do you want? I’m in a hurry.” 

The voice was agitated; it had a desperate sound. This 
also she noticed, but her own was clear and calm. 

“Will you take me with you?” she said. “I am going 
your way.” 

“Frances!” he said in amazement. 

“Will you take me ?” she repeated. 

“Of course I will take you! Get in! Get in!” 

She moved along the side of the car. His hand came 
out to her, the door swung open. 

The next moment they were rushing down the lane into 
a gulf of blackness, and she knew that the prison-walls 
would menace her no more. 



PART III 


CHAPTER I 

THE VICTIM 

Of that wild rush through the night Frances never 
recalled any very clear detail afterwards. She only knew 
a strange dazzle of moonlight that filled the world, mak¬ 
ing all things seem unreal, and once she fancied she 
caught a glimpse of the Stones grimly outlined upon a 
distant hill. 

Her companion never spoke to her, his whole atten¬ 
tion apparently being occupied in forcing the utmost 
speed from his car, despite the extreme unevenness of 
the moorland road they travelled. In the end they ran 
into a little town and straight up the one broad street 
in an inn. Frances always remembered the sign-board 
of that inn, for it was the first thing that made a definite 
impression upon her after her flight. The inn was called 
The Man in the Moon, and the sign-board portrayed the 
same, being an enormous yellow face with the most 
quizzing expression possible to imagine—a face that 
would have provoked a smile from the least humorous. 
Somehow that face served to jolt Frances back to the 
ordinary and the commonplace. It enabled her to put 
the overwhelming sense of tragedy away from her and 
assume something of her old brisk and business-like 
attitude. 


187 


i 88 


Tetherstones 


“Is this where you are staying?” she said. 

“Yes,” said Rotherby. “It’s comfortable enough in a 
homely way. Will you get out?” 

She turned in the seat and faced him. By the light 
of the moon he looked ghastly pale, but he managed to 
call up a smile. 

“If there is another inn in the place I’ll go to it,” said 
Frances. 

“I’m afraid there isn’t,” said Rotherby. “And you 
probably wouldn’t get in if there were. But you needn’t 
be anxious on that account. I’ll call you my sister if you 
like.” 

His manner reassured her. Moreover, he had the look 
of a man at the end of his strength. She wondered what 
had happened to affect him so. 

She got out of the car without further discussion and 
waited while he ran it under an archway into the stable- 
yard. It seemed a long while before he joined her again, 
and then she noticed that he moved with a curiously 
halting gait, almost as if he were feeling his way. 

“It’s all right,” he said, as he reached her. “The door’s 
open. Come inside!” 

He extended a hand to push it back for her, but very 
strangely the intention was frustrated. It was as if he 
had found some obstacle in his path. And as she turned 
towards him in surprise he suddenly uttered an inarticu¬ 
late exclamation and grabbed at her arm. She was aware 
of his whole weight flung abruptly upon her, and she 
caught at him, supporting him as best she could. 

He staggered against the door-post, breathing heavily. 
“I shall be all right in a minute—in a minute,” he gasped 
out. “Just hold me up—if you can! I won’t faint.” 

She held him up, exerting all her strength. 

Several dreadful seconds passed, then he made a de- 


The Victim 


189 

termined effort and straightened himself. As he did so, 
she felt the sleeve of his coat at the elbow and found it wet 
through. A ghastly doubt assailed her. 

“What has happened?” she said through trembling 
lips. “Your arm! Is it—is it-” 

“Blood? Yes. I got it in the shoulder. Don’t be 
frightened! I shall get over it. Can you open the door?” 

He spoke jerkily, but with more assurance. Frances 
opened the door with a sick wonder if the horrors of that 
night would ever pass. 

Rotherby staggered in, and she followed him closely, 
half expecting him to fall headlong. But he had mastered 
himself to a certain extent, and she heard him speak 
with some authority to the shock-headed landlord who 
came sleepily out of the bar-parlour to meet them. 

“This lady is my sister. Can you give her a comfort¬ 
able room for the night?” 

“There’s the room you told me to prepare, sir,” said 
the man, with a loutish grin. 

“That’ll do. Take her to it! See that she has every¬ 
thing she wants! Good night, Frances! You follow 
him! I shall see you in the morning.” 

Rotherby spoke calmly, but it was through clenched 
teeth. 

Frances stood hesitating. The landlord waited at the 
foot of a steep, ill-lighted staircase. 

“That’s all,” said Rotherby. “I’m sorry I can’t do 
more to-night.” 

He was obviously putting strong restraint upon him¬ 
self. Frances waited a moment longer, then spoke. 

“I can’t—possibly—leave you like this. You have 
been hurt. You must let me do what I can to help you.” 

Again for an instant she saw his smile, and she saw 
the clenched teeth behind it. 



190 


Tetherstones 


“I shall be all right/’ he said again. “I don’t think 
there is anything to be done. It isn’t serious. I’ll see a 
doctor in the morning if necessary.” 

But Frances was too practical to be thus reassured. 
“You must let me help you,” she said. “You must.” 

He yielded the point abruptly. “Very well—if you 
wish it. Get some hot water, Jarvis! Fve had a bit of 
an accident.” 

He moved forward to the stairs, and Frances went 
with him, feeling herself once more the victim of an 
inexorable Fate. 

They went up together, Rotherby stumbling until she 
gave him her arm to steady him. Reaching a small land¬ 
ing on which a gas-jet burned low, he directed her into 
a room with an open door, and they entered, he leaning 
upon her. 

The moonlight flooded in through the uncovered 
window, and she saw that it was a bedroom with an old 
four-poster bed. She helped Rotherby to it, and he sank 
down upon the foot with a sigh of relief. 

“Have you got any matches ?” she said. 

“In my pocket—on the right,” he said. “Can you get 
them?” 

She felt for and found them. As she stood up again 
he surprised her by catching her hand to his lips. She 
drew it quickly away, and he said nothing. 

She lighted the gas, that flared starkly in the shabby, 
old-fashioned room, and turned round to him again, 
forcing herself to a calm and matter-of-fact attitude. 

“Shall I help you off with your coat?’’ she said. 

He turned to her suddenly, and she was conscious of 
an unwilling admiration of the man’s courage when she 
saw the effort of his smile. 

“I say, don’t dislike me so!” he said. “I’ll make Jarvis 


The Victim 


191 


help me. Don’t you stay! There’s a room for you 
next-door—my room as a matter of fact, but I’ll stay in 
here for to-night.” 

Against her will she was softened. Something about 
him—something which he neither uttered nor betrayed 
by look or gesture—appealed to her very strongly. She 
found herself unable to comply with his suggestion and 
abandon him to the mercy of the landlord who was even 
now lumbering heavily up the stairs. She realized clearly 
that whatever came of this night’s happenings, she was 
bound in common humanity to stand by Rotherby now. 
No other course of action was open to her. 

“I shall not leave you,” she said, “till I have done all 
I can to help you—unless you make that impossible for 
me.” 

“Heaven forbid!” said Rotherby, still smiling his 
twisted smile. 

“Well, I am in earnest,” she said, as she bent to help 
him. 

“I like you best that way,” said Rotherby. 

She felt that in some fashion he had worsted her, but 
she put the matter resolutely away from her. It was not 
the moment for close analysis of the situation. She could 
only go as she was driven. 

With the utmost care she helped him remove his coat, 
and was shocked to find that the shirt-sleeve was soaked 
with blood from shoulder to elbow. 

“Don’t let Jarvis see!” said Rotherby sharply, and she 
covered it while the man was in the room. 

Jarvis was too sleepy or too fuddled to be curious. He 
merely set down the can, wished them good night and 
stumped away. 

Then Frances bent to her work. She found a jagged 
wound in the shoulder, from which the blood was still 


192 


Tetherstones 


oozing, and she proceeded to bathe it with a strip of 
linen torn from the shirt-sleeve. The means at her dis¬ 
posal were wholly elementary, but she performed her task 
with a deftness that was characteristic of her, finding 
with infinite relief that the wound was not vitally deep. 
Rotherby endured her ministrations with a stoicism that 
again stirred her to admiration. He seemed bent upon 
making the business as easy for her as possible. 

“Don’t mind me!” he said once. “Just go ahead! 
I’ll tell you if I can’t stand it.” 

And then when she had finished at last, he told her 
where to find some handkerchiefs for bandaging pur¬ 
poses in the room that he occupied. 

“You will go to a doctor in the morning, won’t you?” 
she said, pausing. “I have only cleansed it. There is 
bound to be some shot in the wound.” 

“Some what?” said Rotherby, and looked at her with 
one of his most quizzical glances though his face was 
still drawn with pain. “Oh, didn’t I tell you that I tore 
it on some barbed wire?” 

She felt herself colour deeply, but she did not take up 
the challenge. “I should go to a doctor all the same,” 
she said quietly. 

He laughed at her with a touch of impudence that she 
could not resent. “Very good, Sister Superior, I will. 
Now if you don’t mind tying me up, I shall be grateful. 
Where would you like me to sleep—in this room, or my 
own ?” 

“In your own,” she said firmly. 

He sobered suddenly at her tone. “Look here, you 
won’t run away in the night, will you ? I promise you— 
I swear to you—I’ll play the game.” 

What game, she wondered? But she did not put the 
wonder into words. 


The Victim 


193 


“I have nowhere to run to,” she said, and turned away 
from him that he might not see the bitterness on her face. 

When she returned with the handkerchiefs she was a 
practical self once more. But she was beginning to be 
conscious of intense physical weariness, and she felt a 
sense of gratitude to him for noticing it. 

“I say, you are tired! You’ve been ill, haven’t you?” 

“I am well again,” she said. 

He swept the assurance aside. “You don’t look it. 
Don’t bother about me any more! Oh, well, just tie a 
wet pad over it and then leave me to my fate!” 

He became urgent in his solicitude and the knowledge 
that he was suffering considerably himself made her re¬ 
spond far more graciously than would otherwise have 
been the case. 

But when it was over at last, when she was alone in the 
strange room and realized how completely that night’s 
happenings had changed the whole course of her life, a 
blackness of despair came down upon her, more over¬ 
whelming than any she had ever known. She cast her¬ 
self down just as she was and wept out her agony till 
sheer exhaustion came upon her and she drifted at last 
into the merciful oblivion of dreamless sleep. 


CHAPTER II 


THE BARGAIN 

It was late in the morning when she awoke in response 
to a persistent knocking at the door, on the opening of 
which she found a bare-armed country-girl who informed 
her without preamble that the gentleman was waiting 
breakfast for her downstairs. Having delivered this 
message, she retired, and Frances was left to perform 
what toilet she could with the very limited means at her 
command. 

Her long sleep had refreshed her and she reflected with 
relief that her strength was certainly returning. The 
thought of meeting Montague Rotherby gave her no dis¬ 
may. Very strangely he had ceased to possess any very 
great importance in her eyes, her only determination being 
to break off all connection with him as soon as possible. 

Somehow, as she entered the room where he awaited 
her, she had a feeling that he had never really mattered 
very greatly in her life. It was only what he had stood 
for—the realization of that part of her being which had 
lain dormant for so long, the throbbing certainty that 
for her also even the stones of the wilderness might be 
turned into bread. 

She came forward to him, faintly smiling. “Are you 
better to-day?” she said. 

She did not offer her hand, but he took it. His face 
194 


The Bargain 195 

twitched a little at her matter-of-fact greeting. She saw 
at a glance that he looked ill. 

“I’ve had a foul night/’ he said. “But it’s not serious. 
I’m going up to town. Will you come with me?” 

She looked at him, startled. “Oh, no!” she said. 

He bit his lip. “Are you still disliking me ?” he said. 

It was a difficult question to answer, so little did he 
seem to matter now. She replied after a moment with¬ 
out any conscious feeling of any sort. 

“No. But I am not coming up to town with you. Is 
there any particular reason why I should? You are 
quite able to go alone, I suppose?” 

He stared at her for a few seconds, at first frowningly, 
then with a growing cynicism. At length: “What have 
they done to you at Tetherstones ?” he said. “Since you 
accepted my protection last night—more, asked for it—I 
should have thought there was quite a good reason 
why you should be willing to come to town with me 
to-day.” 

“Then you are quite wrong,” she replied very clearly. 
“I am not prepared to do anything of the kind.” 

His frown deepened for a moment, then passed. “Shall 
we have breakfast?” he said. “Then you can tell me 
what your plans are. I am quite willing to fall in with 
them, whatever they may be.” 

Her plans! What were her plans ? The old pitiless 
problem presented itself. Had he meant, she asked her¬ 
self, thus to bring home to her the fact of her dependence 
upon his good offices ? What were her plans ? 

“I have got to think,” she said. 

He nodded. “Perhaps I can be of use. I believe I 
can be. I’ll tell you—when we’ve finished breakfast— 
what I meant by suggesting that you should come up to 
London with me.” 


196 


Tetherstones 


She wondered if he were referring to the old plan of 
giving her secretary work. Or perhaps—though she 
hardly dared to think it—he was going to talk about her 
sketches and the possibilities therein contained. Against 
her will, that thought remained with her throughout the 
brief meal that they ate together. Upon one point only 
was she fully decided. She could live on charity no 
longer. She was resolutely determined to work for her 
living now, whatever that work might be. 

She noticed that her companion ate very little, but he 
seemed fully master of himself, and she put away the 
feeling of uneasiness that tried to take possession of her. 
She would very thankfully have avoided any discussion 
of the events of the previous night, but she knew this to 
be inevitable. There were certain things that must be 
faced. 

He pushed back his chair at length and spoke. 
“There’s only one way out of this tangle,” he said. “You 
must realize that as I do. But perhaps I have not made 
myself very clear. What I want you to do is to come 
up to town and—marry me. Will you do that?” He 
smiled at her with the words. “I’m sorry my courtship 
has hung fire for so long. But you will admit I am 
hardly responsible for that. And I am quite ready to 
make up for lost time now. What do you say to it ?” 

Frances was on her feet. He had roused her to feeling 
at last, but it was not such feeling as would have moved 
her a few weeks earlier. She had to stifle an almost over¬ 
whelming sense of indignation before she could speak. 

“It is quite impossible,” she said then, with the utmost 
emphasis. “It is quite, quite impossible!” 

“Impossible!” He stared at her. “But why? I under¬ 
stood it was what you wanted. I have a distinct recol¬ 
lection of your telling me so.” 


197 


The Bargain 

She gasped at the recollection. It stung like a scorpion. 
“But that was long ago—long ago,” she said. “I don’t 
want it now! I couldn’t—possibly—contemplate such a 
thing now.” 

“But why?” Rotherby insisted in astonishment. Then: 
“Perhaps you think I don’t love you. Is that it?” 

“Oh, no!” She had begun to tremble. “That wouldn’t 
make any difference. At least, it is not that that has made 
me change my mind.” 

“Ah!” he said with a sudden grimness. “Something 
else has done that.” 

She was aware of a sharp pain at her heart that was 
almost unendurable. It took all her courage to meet his 
eyes. But she forced her voice to steadiness. “Perhaps 
it would be nearer the truth to say that I have come to 
know my own mind rather than that I have changed it. 
I thought I loved you, but it was a mistake. As to 
whether you ever loved me, I have no illusions at all. 
You never did.” 

He got up. She saw his face twist as if he were in 
pain, but she knew that it was nothing physical that 
brought that look to his eyes, banishing the cynicism. 
“You seem very sure of that,” he said, and turned from 
her to light a cigarette. “So I am struck off the list, am I ? 
Do you think you are altogether wise to do that—after 
what happened last night?” 

The question surprised her, but it was wholly without 
malice. She could not take offence. 

She answered him in a low voice, for the first time 
conscious of the dread of giving pain. “I have really no 
choice. I couldn’t do anything else.” 

“What do you propose to do?” he said. 

The old maddening question that she had had to answer 
so often. She tried to summon the old battling spirit, 


198 


Tetherstones 


but it did not respond to her call. Her pride had been 
flung in the dust. What did she propose to do? Was 
there anything left that could ever restore her self- 
respect ? 

With a gesture that was quite unconsciously pathetic, 
she turned and went to the window in silence. 

Rotherby smoked without speaking for a few seconds. 
If he felt the appeal of her hopelessness, he did not show 
it. 

It was she who spoke first at length, without turning, 
and it was as though she uttered the words to herself 
with the dreary persistence of despair. 

“I have got to begin again.” 

“What are you going to do ?” said Rotherby. 

There was a quality of ruthlessness in his voice that 
pierced her despair. She swung round abruptly and faced 
him. There was majesty in her bearing, though with it 
was mingled the desperation of the hunted animal at 
bay. 

“I will work,” she said. “I am not afraid of work. 
And I don’t care what I do.” 

He came and joined her at the window. “Yes, it 
sounds all right,” he said. “But you haven’t the strength, 
and you know it.” 

She shrank at the blunt words, for they struck her 
hard. She knew—it was useless to dispute it—that she 
lacked the strength. 

“What is the use of saying that?” she said, protesting 
almost in spite of herself. 

“Because I want you to see reason,” he rejoined, and 
she knew that he recognized his advantage, and would 
press it to the utmost. “Why don’t you want to marry 
me, Circe? You might do very much worse.” 

She drew back from him. “Oh, don’t you see that it 


The Bargain 199 

is out of the question?” she said. “I couldn’t marry 
you. I don’t love you.” 

She saw his face harden. “That is plain speaking,” he 
said. “But I want to know why. What have I done to 
forfeit your love?” 

“But I never loved you,” she said. 

“Are you sure of that?” He spoke insistently. “You 
kissed me. You let me hold you in my arms.” 

She flinched at the recollection, but she compelled her¬ 
self to face him. “That was a mistake,” she said. 

“You are sure of that?” said Rotherby. 

“Quite sure,” she answered with simplicity. 

He shifted his ground. “Are you also sure you know 
what love is?” 

She clenched her hands as though in self-defence. 
“Every woman knows that,” she said. 

“Then how did you come to make a mistake?” he 
countered. 

Again she drew back as from the thrust of a dagger. 
“Oh, I suppose any woman might do that, but when once 
she has found it out—she doesn’t do it again.” 

“How did you come to find out?” said Rotherby. 

The inquisition was becoming intolerable, but still she 
faced him with resolution. “I have had a good many 
hours for thought,” she said. “And I have thought a 
good deal.” 

“At Tetherstones?” he said. 

“Yes.” 

She saw a gleam of something she did not understand 
in his look. He seemed to be watching narrowly for 
something. He spoke abruptly. 

“What I don’t understand—what I want to under¬ 
stand—is why you came with me last night.” 

She answered him with an effort. “I had to get away.” 


200 


Tetherstones 


“Ah!” he said. “It wasn’t on my account then? You 
weren’t coming to meet me after all—in spite of my 
message? Did you get my message?” 

She bent her head. “Yes. I had your message. Ruth 
told me. I was coming—I was coming—to meet you.” 

“Yes?” he said. “Why were you so late?” 

She hesitated. She could not tell him of that awful 
interview in the farm-kitchen. She could not bring her¬ 
self so much as to mention Arthur’s name. 

“I was coming to meet you,” she said again. “I didn’t 
mean to be late. But they are a strange family. I didn’t 
want them to know.” 

“A very strange family!” said Rotherby. “Why 
should they know? Your affairs are your own.” 

“Yes. But they have been very kind to me. They 
might think they had a right-” 

“A right to shoot anyone from outside who wanted to 
speak to you?” he said. 

“Oh, no—no!” she protested, feeling the hot colour 
rise overwhelmingly under his look. “That was a piece 
of madness.” 

“You knew it was going to happen?” he questioned. 

“No. I knew you were in some sort of danger. I 
didn’t know what. I was coming to warn you.” 

Reluctantly she uttered the brief sentences. It was 
like the betrayal of her friends. 

He seized upon the unwilling admission. “You knew? 
How did you know ?” 

She had to answer him. “One of the men on the farm 
told me. He didn’t say why—merely that you were in 
danger—that I had better warn you to go.” 

“And then you decided to come with me?” said 
Rotherby. 

“I decided that I couldn’t stay any longer,” she told 



The Bargain 201 

him steadily. “You came up at the right moment, that 
was all.” 

“What?” His eyes searched her again, his expression 
slowly changing. “You were running away too, were 
you?” 

She wondered that he did not press the point of the 
mysterious attack upon him further, but was thankful 
that he refrained. She turned from the subject with 
relief. “I had to get away,” she said again. 

“You’re not going back?” he questioned. 

Something rose in her throat. Again she was con¬ 
scious of that intolerable pain. She forced her utterance. 
“Never, no, never!” she said. 

He made no comment, but turned away from her and 
paced the length of the room before he spoke again. 
Then, with his back to her, he paused. 

“And yet you would sooner work yourself to death 
than marry me!” 

She answered him immediately with feverish insist¬ 
ence. “Yes, I must work. I must work. I can’t go 
on being dependent. I can’t endure it.” 

He turned round. “Perhaps—if you were independent 
—you might regard me differently,” he said. 

She was silent. 

He came slowly back to her. “Circe! May I hope 
for that?” 

She looked at him helplessly. 

He stood before her. “I swear to you,” he said 
forcibly, “that no one on this earth wants you as I do.” 

A curious tremor of feeling went through her. She 
was stirred in spite of herself. 

He put out his hand to her. “Circe!” His voice 
came oddly uncontrolled. “Won’t you—can’t you-” 

She did not know what moved her—his obvious 



202 


Tetherstones 


earnestness or her own utter friendlessness. But some¬ 
how her mood answered his. Her hand went into his 
grasp. 

“But I must be independent first, ,, she said. It was the 
last effort of her pride. “You’ll help me to be that?” 

“I’ll help you,” he said. 


CHAPTER III 

THE TURN OF THE TIDE 

The days that succeeded her flight from Tetherstones 
left an ineradicable impression upon Frances. She main¬ 
tained her steady refusal to accompany Rotherby to Lon¬ 
don, but she did not remain at The Man in the Moon. 
She found a bedroom over the little Post Office at 
Fordestown, and here she established herself, after col¬ 
lecting her few belongings from her former lodging at 
Brookside. She had very little money left, but she built 
on the hope that her sketches might find a market. 
Rotherby had undertaken to do his best to dispose of the 
one which he had taken with him, and she had plans for 
making more while the golden weather lasted. 

On the second day of her sojourn at Fordestown she 
wrote to Dolly at Tetherstones. She found it impos¬ 
sible to give any adequate reason for her abrupt de¬ 
parture, so she barely touched upon it beyond begging her 
to believe that in spite of everything she was and would 
ever be deeply grateful for all the kindness that they had 
shown her. She ended the letter with a request that 
the next time Oliver had to come to Fordestown he might 
bring her sketching materials to her. She posted her 
letter and went out on to the moor for the rest of the 
day. 


203 


204 


Tetherstones 


The solitude of the great heather-clad space that she 
loved brought soothing to her tired spirit. She was at 
last able to review the situation deliberately and dispas¬ 
sionately; but the more she meditated upon it, the more 
did she feel that the disposition of the future was no 
longer in her own control. 

Very curiously, and now it seemed inextricably, had 
her life been bound up with Montague Rotherby’s. 
Neither attraction nor repulsion were factors that counted 
any more. He had laid claim to her so persistently that 
she had almost begun to feel at last that he had a claim. 
In any case she was too tired, too dazed by the blows of 
Fate, to battle any further. She who had fought so hard 
for her freedom was compelled to own herself van¬ 
quished at last. Like a stormy dawn romance had come 
to her, and by its light she had seen the golden vision of 
love. But the light had swiftly faded and the vision 
fled. And she was left—a slave. 

“I will never have any more dreams,” she said to her¬ 
self, as she gazed through tears at the dim blue tors. 
“None but a fool could ever imagine that the stones 
could be made bread.” 

And then she sought to brace herself with the thought 
that she had not greatly suffered. 

“It can’t have gone very deep,” she told herself very 
resolutely, “in so short a time.” 

But yet she knew—as we all know—that it is not by 
time or any other circumstance that Love the Immeasur¬ 
able can be measured, and that no power on earth can 
ever obliterate the memory of Love. 

Of Montague personally she thought but little during 
those days. Of Arthur Dermot she thought ceaselessly. 
Against her will the individuality of the man imposed 
itself upon her. Night and day she thought of him, 


The Turn of the Tide 


205 


puzzled, distressed, humiliated, seeking vainly for a so¬ 
lution to the mystery in which all his actions were 
wrapped. Why had he misjudged her thus? What mad¬ 
ness had driven him to attempt the other man’s life? 
Was he actually mad, she asked herself? It might have 
accounted for much, and yet somehow she did not be¬ 
lieve it. The man’s melancholy philosophy was the 
philosophy of reason, his cynical acceptance of life the 
deliberate and trained conclusion of a balanced mind. 
His love for herself she found harder to understand, but 
it moved her to the depths, appealing to her as nothing 
had ever apealed before. His violence, his brutality, had 
shocked her unspeakably, so that she prayed passionately 
that she might never see him again. But yet, strangely, 
the appeal still held. By that alone, he had entered the 
inner shrine of her heart, and, strive as she might, she 
could not cast him out. His love for her might be dead. 
Never for a moment did she imagine that it could have 
survived that awful night. But the memory of it—ah, 
the memory of it—it would go with her all through her 
life, just as she would remember the purple flower upon 
the coping in the Palace garden, a thing of beauty be¬ 
loved for a while and then lost—the gift that the gods 
had offered only to snatch away ere she had grasped it. 

Those days of waiting were as the days spent by a 
prisoner awaiting trial, only there was no hope on the 
horizon. Like one of the prisoners of old of whom 
Arthur had told her, she was tethered to her stone and 
the first effort she made for freedom would crush her. 
Though to a great extent she had regained her strength, 
she knew that she was not equal to hard work—such 
work as she had done for the Bishop. There were times 
of faintness and inertia when she felt that the very heart 
within her must be worn out, times of overwhelming de- 


206 


Tetherstones 


pression also, when for hours the tears would well up 
and fall and she lacked the power to restrain them. 

No one knew what she was enduring. There was no 
one at hand to help her. Chained to her stone, she waited 
day by day, not for deliverance but for the coming of 
her fate. 

And then one day there came a letter from Rotherby, 
and in that letter was an enclosure that sent the blood 
tingling through her veins. He had sold her sketch for 
five guineas, and he could dispose of more if she cared 
to send them. “Couldn’t you do a companion picture to 
the stepping-stones?” he said in conclusion. 

His letter held no endearments. It was the most 
business-like epistle she had ever received from him, and 
her gratitude was intense. She sent him all the sketches 
she had by the next post, and with them a note expressing 
her earnest thanks and asking how he fared. 

Then she sat down to think. It seemed to her in the 
first flush of excitement that this was the most wonder¬ 
ful thing that had ever happened to her. It was like a 
tonic to her drooping spirits. Surely it was the turning- 
point at last! 

The bleatings and patterings of a flock of sheep pass¬ 
ing up the street brought to her mind the fact that it 
was market-day. She went to the window with an 
eagerness she had not known for long with the thought 
that Oliver might be coming at any time with her sketch¬ 
ing materials. She longed to take up her beloved 
pastime again. If indeed it were to give her back her 
cherished independence, with what gladness would she 
spend her utmost effort to achieve her best. But it 
seemed too good to be true. 

She looked in vain for Oliver or for any face she 
knew, and at length, disappointed, she turned away. But 


The Turn of the Tide 


207 

Rotherby’s letter was close to her hand, and she sat down 
to read it afresh. 

It was while she was thus employed that she heard the 
trampling of a horse’s hoofs outside, and looked forth 
once more in time to see Dr. Square just rolling off his 
old white horse. 

Her heart gave a leap at the sight, but the next mo¬ 
ment she told herself that he had patients in Fordestown 
and it was not likely that he had come thither to seek her. 

Nevertheless she listened anxiously, and presently 
heard the sound of his heavy step upon the stairs. She 
went to her door then and opened it, meeting him on the 
narrow landing outside. 

She saw in a moment that his big face lacked its usual 
cheeriness though he greeted her with outstretched hand. 
“Ah, here you are, Miss Thorold! Dolly told me where 
to look for you, and they sent me up from downstairs. 
May I come in?” 

“Please do!” she said, and led the way back into her 
room. Her first instinctive feeling of pleasure at sight 
of him had given way to one of misgiving. She turned 
very quickly and faced him. “Please tell me what is the 
matter! Something is wrong.” 

He did not atempt to deny it. “They’re in bad trouble 
at Tetherstones,” he said. “And when Dolly told me 
you were here, I said I’d come over and see you.” 

“Oh, what is the matter?” she said. 

His kindly eyes looked into hers with a hint of con¬ 
cern. “Don’t you upset yourself, Miss Thorold!” he 
said. “You’re not too strong, remember. It’s the little 
girl—little Ruth. She’s had an accident, and she’s very 
ill.” 

“Oh, poor mite!” said Frances. “How did it happen ?” 

“It’s difficult to say. The child was lost for some 


208 


Tetherstones 


hours the day after you left. Then they found her up 
at the Stones. She had been looking for you, she said. 
And that was all they could get out of her. She had had 
a bad fall off the Rocking Stone, and couldn’t move.” 

“Oh, poor little girl!” Frances’ voice was quick with 
anxiety. “Is she much hurt?” 

Dr. Square nodded slowly once or twice. “She has no 
strength—and I’m afraid—very much afraid—there is 
some mischief to the spine. She keeps on asking for 
you, Miss Thorold. I said I’d come and tell you.” 

“Ah!” Frances said. 

It came upon her like a blow—the cudgel-stroke of 
Fate. So there was to be no escape after all! A sense 
of suffocation came upon her, and she turned sharply 
to the window, instinctively seeking air. Blind for a 
moment, she leaned there, gathering her strength. 

Behind her she heard the doctor’s voice. “Now take it 
quietly! Don’t let yourself be overcome! There’s no 
need. The little one isn’t suffering, and—please God— 
she won’t suffer. It’s only her anxiety about you that’s 
worrying her. She’s not used to worry, you know. 
She’s only a baby.” His voice shook a little. “But if 
you could just go to her—set her mind at rest—you’d 
never be sorry. You’ve had a hard life, Miss Thorold, 
but you’ve got a soft heart. And sometimes, you know, 
when we are throwing a line to others, the tide turns in 
our favour and we find we’re drifting in to our own 
desired haven as well.” 

His words reached her through a great chaos of emo¬ 
tions. She leaned against the window-frame with closed 
eyes, seeing herself as driftwood upon the tide of which 
he spoke. To go back to Tetherstones, to face again 
the torment from which she had barely escaped, to feel 
the grey walls enclosing her once more and all the sinister 


The Turn of the Tide 


209 


influences that had , 4 as it were, stretched out and around 
her to draw her down! She lifted her face to the soft 
grey sky with an inarticulate prayer for help. 

She heard again the doctor’s voice behind her, and 
realized that he was pleading for something very near 
his heart. Was not little Ruth near to the hearts of all 
who knew her? 

“It won’t be for very long,” he was saying. “She’s 
fretting her heart out for you because she had got hold 
of the idea that you are in danger—frightened—un¬ 
happy. No one can set her mind at rest except you, and 
it would be a kindness to them all at Tether stones to go 
and do it. You would like to do them a kindness, Miss 
Thorold ?” 

That moved her. Very suddenly all her doubt and 
hesitation were swept away. To do them a kindness— 
these people who had brought her back from the gates 
of death, who had sheltered her, cared for her, com¬ 
forted her in her extremity! What mattered anything 
besides ? What was her pride compared with this ? What 
though her very heart were pierced by the ordeal? She 
could not shirk it now. It was as though an answer had 
come to that half-formed prayer of hers. Whatever the 
outcome, she had no choice but to go back. 

With a sharp, catching breath, she turned. “I will 
go—of course,” she said. “How can I get there?” 

He smiled at her with instant relief, and she realized 
that he had hardly expected to gain his point. She 
wondered how much he knew regarding her sudden de¬ 
parture. It was evident that he understood that she had a 
very strong reason for not wishing to return. 

He got up. “Well, as I said, you’ll never regret it,” 
he said. “As to getting there, Oliver’s in the town now 
with the cart. Do you mind going back with him? It 


210 Tetherstones 

may be for a few days, you know. You're prepared for 
that?" 

“I will stay as long as little Ruth wants me," she 
said. 

‘That’s right. That’s like you." He held out his 
hand to her, “Good-bye, Miss Thorold! You’re looking 
better. I believe the tide has turned already." 

She tried to smile in answer, but she found no words. 
Driftwood! Driftwood! And even if the tide turned, 
whither could it land her now? 


CHAPTER IV 

RUTH 

“Pleased to see you, Miss Thorold,” Oliver touched 
his hat with his whip and gave her his friendly smile of 
welcome. “A bad business this about the little girl. 
They’re all very upset at Tetherstones.” 

“I am sure they must be,” Frances said. “What a 
terribly sad business, Oliver! Who was it found her ?” 

“I found her,” said Oliver. “But we thought she 
was with you and no one missed her at first. She’d been 
lying there all night and a good part of the day before 
she was missed. We’d been busy, you see—” he jerked 
the reins—“busy with other things. Then Maggie came 
out to me and said you were gone and the little one 
couldn’t be found, and I went straight away to the Stones 
to look for her. She was lying just under the Rocking 
Stone unconscious, and I carried her back. She’s come 
to herself since, but they say she’s somehow different— 
that she’ll never be the same again—that she—” He broke 
off to cough and flicked the horse’s ears with his whip. 
They clattered over the rough stones of the street for 
some distance in silence. After a while he spoke again. 
“She’s only a child—a bit of a baby—but she isn’t like 
others I’ve ever seen. Maggie is just breaking her heart 
over her.” 


211 


212 


Tetherstones 


“Poor Maggie!” said Frances gently. 

“Yes.” He nodded acquiescence. “Maggie and Nan 
■—Ruth’s mother—were always the pals, you see. There 
was only a year between them. Nan was Arthur’s 
favourite sister too. He’s feeling it pretty badly—though 
he’d sooner die than let anyone know.” 

Frances felt her heart contract. She said nothing. 

They were out upon the open moor road before Oliver 
volunteered anything further. Then, somewhat abruptly, 
with a sidelong glance at her, he said, “It’s decent of you 
to come back to us after the fright you had.” 

“I am only coming for little Ruth’s sake,” Frances 
said. 

“Yes, I know. The doctor told me. I didn’t think 
he’d get you to come,” said Oliver frankly. “You’d had 
a pretty bad scare. But it might have been worse, I sup¬ 
pose. The fellow wasn’t much damaged, was he?” 

There was curiosity in his tone tempered with a reti¬ 
cence that she was quick to detect. A sharp sense of 
anger surged within her. 

“It was no thanks to—to—the man who shot him that 
he wasn’t killed,” she said. 

“No. I know,” said Oliver. He added after a mo¬ 
ment, “Anyway I did my best to prevent it. It wasn’t 
my fault that it happened.” 

She turned upon him. “But—surely you didn’t know 
it was going to happen ?” she said. 

He lifted his shoulders. “No, I didn’t know, Miss 
Thorold. But I did know the chap was in danger. I 
told you so, didn’t I ?” 

“But why—why?” said Frances. 

He gave her again that sidelong glance. “Can’t always 
account for things,” he said. “We’re a good long way 
from towns and civilization here.” 


Ruth 


213 


“But he might have been killed she said. 

He nodded. “So he might. But he wasn’t. That’s 
all that matters. Where is he now?” 

“He has gone to town,” she said. 

“Then, if he’s a wise man, he’ll stop there,” said 
Oliver with finality, and whipped up his horse. 

The day was soft and cloudy, the tors wrapped in mist. 
There was a feeling of rain in the air and the sweetness 
of rain-filled streams. She heard the rushing of unseen 
water as they trotted over the winding moorland road. It 
filled her with a great sadness, a longing indescribable to 
which she could give no name. 

She asked no more questions of Oliver, for she knew 
instinctively that she would receive no actual enlighten¬ 
ment from him. Moreover, something within her shrank 
from discussing Arthur Dermot and Arthur Dermot’s 
motives with a third person. Any explanation, she felt, 
must come from the man himself. 

They drove on up the stony road, drawing nearer and 
nearer to the great boulder-strewn tors, hearing the vague 
bleatings of sheep in the desolation but seeing no living- 
thing upon their way. Again the eeriness of the place 
began to possess Frances. It was a relief to her when 
Oliver said abruptly, “We won’t go by the Stones.” 

She believed it to be the quicker route, but it was 
rough, and she was thankful that he proposed to avoid 
it. Her dread of Tetherstones was growing with every 
yard they covered, but there was no turning back now. 
She could only go forward to whatever might be in 
store. 

The mist gradually descended to meet them and turned 
to a small rain, drifting in their faces. The chill of the 
moor laid a clammy touch upon them. Frances shivered 
in spite, of herself. 


214 


Tetherstones 


Oliver shot her his shrewd glance. “They’ll be awfully 
pleased to see you,” he said, and added, “We’re nearly 
there.” 

Yes, they were nearly there. The atmosphere of 
Tetherstones seemed to be reaching out to receive them— 
the old grey place from which she had fled as from a 
prison. 

They turned down the steep lane, and the scent of wet 
honeysuckle came to Frances mingling with the bog- 
myrtle of the moors. Something rose in her throat and 
she turned her face aside. She had fled from the place as 
from a prison, yet, returning, that exquisite scent came 
back to her as the breath of home. 

They reached the white gate, standing wide to receive 
them, and drove through to the garden where Roger 
met them with extravagant antics of delight. His wel¬ 
come sent a warmth to her heart that in some fashion 
eased the unacknowledged pain there. She approached 
the old stone doorway with more assurance. 

Oliver saluted and turned the horse; she heard him 
driving round to the stables as she entered. 

The door stood open according to custom. The 
passage was dark, but she heard someone moving in the 
kitchen and directed her steps thither, Roger bounding 
by her side. Then as she turned a corner there came the 
sudden tread of feet, and she drew back sharply. She 
was face to face with Arthur Dermot. 

He also checked himself abruptly, and in a moment 
stood back against the wall to let her pass. 

He did not attempt to address her, but she could not 
pass him so in his own house. She stood still. 

But for a second or two her voice refused to serve 
her, and he made an odd movement as if to compel her 
to pass on. Then with a sharp effort she spoke. 


Ruth 


215 

“Little Ruth—I have come to see her. Is she—is 
she-” 

“Dying—yes,” he said. “It was—good of you to 
come. Nell and Lucy are in the kitchen. If you like, I 
will tell them you are here.” 

“Oh no,” she said. “No. I will go to them.” 

She passed him quickly, thankful to escape, hearing his 
heavy tread as he went on, with that old fateful feeling at 
her heart. She wondered what he really thought of her 
for returning thus. 

She found the two girls in the kitchen, very subdued 
and troubled though they gave her a ready welcome. 

“We've missed you dreadfully,” said Nell. “And little 
Ruth has hardly left off crying for you all these days.” 
Her lip quivered. “Dr. Square said he should go and tell 
you after your letter came—but I didn’t think you’d 
come.” 

“I had to come,” Frances said. 

“I thought you would if you really knew how badly 
you were wanted,” said Lucy. 

“I didn’t,” said Nell. “I knew you wouldn’t stay that 
day of the row. I told you so, didn’t I? And I never 
thought you’d come back. I told Arthur you wouldn’t. 
Only you would have done it.” 

She looked at Frances with warm admiration in her 
eyes. 

“You’re a brick,” she said. “And we’ll none of us for¬ 
get it. You might run and tell Dolly, Lucy. Now sit 
down, Miss Thorold, and I’ll get you a glass of milk.” 

She bustled round the old raftered kitchen, and Fran¬ 
ces, sitting in the horsehair arm-chair, tried to forget 
that awful night when she had awaked as from a night¬ 
mare to find herself lying before the great fireplace—a 
prisoner. 



216 


Tetherstones 


“Where are your mother and Maggie?” she asked, 
when Nell brought her the milk. « 

“Mother is in the study with the old man,” said Nell. 
“Maggie is out somewhere. She and Elsie were getting 
hay down from the loft a few minutes ago. The work 
has got to go on, you know, whoever lives or dies.” She 
checked a sob upon the words. 

Frances leaned forward and held her hand. “Tell me 
about little Ruth!” she said. 

“Oh, there isn’t much to tell. She went to look for 
you the night you left. You had a fright, didn’t you? 
So did we. There was a frightful row after you were 
gone, and we all of us forgot to wonder where she was 
till the morning. Then Oliver found her—found her—” 
Nell choked and recovered herself. “It was up by the 
Stones. She’d been there heaps of times before and 
never come to any harm. But this time she must have 
gone right up on to the Rocking Stone and overbalanced. 
She was lying under it, and she’d been there for twelve 
hours or more, poor little darling. She was unconscious 
when Oliver found her, but she hadn’t been all the time. 
She keeps on talking about it, about being a prisoner 
under that stone and begging God to set her free so 
that she can go to you. She has got a rooted idea that 
you are in trouble. You’re not, are you? Everything’s 
all right with you?” She looked down at Frances 
piteously, through tears. 

“Don’t you bother your head about me, my dear!” 
said Frances. “My affairs don’t count now.” She paused 
a moment, then, with some hesitation: “Will you tell me 
why there was such a disturbance after I went?” she 
asked. 

“Oh, that!” said Nell, and also hesitated. “That’s 
one of the things we’re not supposed to talk about,” she 


Ruth 


217 

said, after a moment. “You don’t mind, Miss Thorold? 
You’ll try to understand?” 

“My dear, don’t you trouble!” said Frances very 
kindly. “I shall always try to understand.” 

But even as she spoke she felt again that cold misgiving 
at her heart. What species of monster was this whom 
they all combined to shield? 

Lucy came running down again with an eager message. 
Dolly said would she go up at once ? Little Ruth was in 
their mother’s room. She would show her where it was. 

Then, as they mounted the stairs together, she drew 
close to Frances and slipped a shy hand into her arm. 
“We have missed you so much,” she said. 

Frances patted the hand without speaking. The 
warmth of her welcome touched her very deeply. 

They traversed two or three rambling passages before 
they reached Mrs. Dermot’s room. It was over the 
kitchen, a low, oak-raftered apartment with an uneven 
floor. It contained two beds, and in one of these, close 
to a narrow, ivy-grown window, lay Ruth. 

Her face was turned towards the door, and—it came 
upon Frances with a curious sense of shock—the eyes 
that had always till then been closed were open, wide 
open, and burning with a fire so spiritual, so unearthly, 
that for a moment she halted almost as one afraid. In 
that moment she realized very fully and beyond all possi¬ 
bility of doubt that little Ruth was dying. 

Lucy’s soft touch drew her forward. She was aware 
of Dolly, pale and restrained, somewhere in the back¬ 
ground, but she did not actually see her. She went to 
the child’s bedside as if she were entering a sanctuary. 

Ruth greeted her instantly, but she lay like a waxen 
image with tiny hands folded on her breast. 

“Have you come back at last, dear Miss Thorold?” 


218 


Tetherstones 


she said, a thrill of gladness in her voice. “God told 
me you would in a dream last night.” 

Frances knelt down by the bed and closely clasped the 
little folded hands that never stirred to her touch. “My 
little darling!” she said softly. “Have you been wanting 
me?” 

The burning eyes were fixed upon her. It was as though 
in them alone the living spirit lingered. She was sure 
that the spirit saw her in that hour. 

“Yes, I have wanted you,” the child said. “I have 
been calling you—crying for you—^ver since that night. 
You said that you were coming then, but you never 
came.” 

“I couldn’t,” whispered Frances. 

“No. You had to go,” Ruth agreed, in her tired voice. 
“I knew that. But why didn’t you go to the Stones? 
You meant to go there, didn’t you?” 

“I can’t tell you now, darling,” Frances said. 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ruth. “I think God didn’t 
want you to go. But I didn’t know that when I went 
to look for you. I thought you might be lost and 
frightened again—like you were that first night that I 
found you. And then—when you weren’t there—I was 
afraid something had happened to you. Did anything 
happen, dear Miss Thorold?” 

“Nothing dreadful, sweetheart,” she answered softly. 

“Then God took care of you,” Ruth said, with convic¬ 
tion. “There was something dreadful very near you— 
very near you; but He sent it away.” 

Those blind eyes—the eyes of a visionary—kindled 
afresh with the words, and a sudden sense as of some¬ 
thing vividly remembered smote Frances. She had seen 
those eyes before. Where? Where? Then it came to 
her—like a rending flash of lightning across a dark sky. 


Ruth 


219 


The Bishop of Burminster had had that inner flame as 
of prophecy in his eyes on the night that he had de¬ 
nounced her. A great wave of feeling went through her. 
She had an overwhelming desire to shield herself, shrink¬ 
ing as one shrinks from the unsparing beam of a search- 
light. 

“We won't talk of it now, darling,” she said almost 
pleadingly. “Try to go to sleep!” 

“I don’t want to sleep,” said the child. “I want to give 
you a message, but it hasn’t come yet. And if I go to 
sleep, I shall forget it.” 

“We will give her something to make her sleep pres¬ 
ently,” said Dolly gently. “She isn’t in any pain—only a 
little tired. Take this chair, Miss Thorold! You must 
be tired too.” 

So Frances sat down beside the bed to wait, as all in 
that house were waiting, for the coming of the Angel 
of Death. 


CHAPTER V 


THE EXILE 

Late in the afternoon Maggie came in, her plump, 
rosy face drawn and sad. She came and hung over the 
bed for a space in silence. Ruth was lying as she had lain 
throughout, with her eyes fixed upwards, as though wait¬ 
ing for a sign, and still they burned with that fire of in¬ 
ner sight which to Frances had been somehow terrible. 
Maggie straightened herself at last with a deep sigh. She 
looked across at Frances with the glimmer of a welcoming 
smile, but she did not speak. Softly she crept away. 

The next to come was the white-haired mother, and to 
her Ruth spoke the moment she entered the room though 
her entrance made no sound. 

“My dear Granny!” she said. 

Frances rose quickly and proffered her chair; but Mrs. 
Dermot shook her head. 

“No, no! I have only come for a moment.” She bent 
over the child. “Are you happier now, my baby? Can 
you go to sleep?” 

“Yes, I am quite happy,” said little Ruth, “now that 
Miss Thorold is here. But I can’t go to sleep till I get 
the message for her. I might die, dear Granny, and I 
shouldn’t be able to give it her then. We can only send 
our love—after we are dead.” 

“But Miss Thorold can’t stay here all the time, 
darling,” said Mrs. Dermot, with a tender touch upon the 
child’s brow. “She will get so tired sitting here. She 
has been ill, you know. She will want to rest.” 

220 


The Exile 


221 


“Someone will call her when the message comes,” said 
Ruth. “I know she won’t mind. She is always so good. 
Will you go and rest, please, Miss Thorold? It won’t 
come yet.” 

“Please do!” said Mrs. Dermot. “My son asks me to 
say that he hopes you will regard Tether stones as your 
home for as long as you care to stay in it. I think I need 
not speak for myself, or tell you how grateful we all are 
to you for coming back to set our little one’s mind at 
rest.” 

There was infinite pathos to Frances in the quiet utter¬ 
ance. Mrs. Dermot was looking at her with eyes that 
seemed too tired for tears. 

“How she has suffered!” was the thought that passed 
through Frances’ mind, as she met them. 

“You are much more than kind—as you always have 
been,” she said very earnestly, as she rose to go. “Please 
remember that I am here to help, if there is anything 
whatever that I can do! Don’t hesitate—ever—to make 
use of me!” 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Dermot. “I should like you to 
rest now. Your room is quite ready for you. Perhaps— 
perhaps—in the night we may need you.” 

Frances knew what she meant. She stooped to kiss 
little Ruth and turned to go. “I shall be ready at any 
time,” she said. 

In the doorway she encountered Dolly entering with a 
cup of milk in her hand. Dolly stopped. 

“Are you going downstairs for some tea? That’s right. 
It’s in the kitchen. Maggie is there. She will look after 
you. We are so glad you have come back.” 

She passed on into the room, and Frances went out 
alone. 

The old house was full of shadows. She could hear the 


222 


Tethers tones 


shrill cries of swallows wheeling about the eaves. The 
scent of honeysuckle was everywhere. How had she ever 
thought of it as a prison? 

► Slowly she went down the stairs, and turned towards 
the kitchen. As she did so, she heard a sudden sound in 
the recess in which she had hidden on the night of her 
flight, and started to see two figures emerge. They were 
very closely locked together, and she saw that in the 
dimness she was not observed. Involuntarily almost, she 
drew back. 

“Don’t fret, sweetheart!” It was Oliver’s voice, pitched 
very low. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see.” 

“Oh dear, I do hope so,” came back in a whisper from 
Maggie. “It doesn’t feel right though I suppose it is.” 

“It is right,” the man confidently asserted. “If we can’t 
choose our circumstances we must adapt ourselves to 
them. It’s the only way to live.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Maggie somewhat dubiously. 

They passed down the passage to the kitchen, leaving 
Frances standing at the foot of the stairs. 

So standing, down the passage to her left that led to 
the study, she heard a voice—an old man’s voice, broken, 
pathetic, piteously pleading. 

“I assure you—” it said—“I assure you—you are 
wrong. It is difficult to conceive how you can permit 
yourself to harbour these monstrous and terrible ideas. 
I sometimes think your brain is not normal. You are 
causing the greatest grief both to your mother whom you 
profess to love—and to myself, for whom I know but too 
well that all filial affection has long ceased to exist. I 
am an old man and helpless. Your behaviour is breaking 
my heart. I shall go down to my grave with the know¬ 
ledge that my son—my only son—will rejoice to see me 
laid there.” 


The Exile 


223 


There followed an agonized sound that pierced Frances 
like the cry of a child. Almost before she knew what 
she was doing, she had turned in the direction of the 
study. She went down the passage swiftly to the door 
that stood half-open and knocked upon it quickly and 
nervously. 

“Can I come in?” she said. 

It was the impulse to help, to protect, that moved her, 
and though she knew who was in the study with old 
Mr. Dermot, she did not hesitate. Only as she entered 
did he realize that her heart was thumping almost unen- 
durably. 

She paused just within the room. “Can I come in?” 
she said again, and felt her breath come sharply with the 
words. It needed all her resolution to control it. 

A startled silence followed her appearance, and then 
very kindly and courteously the old man greeted her. 

“Come in, Miss Thorold! Come in! I am delighted 
to see you!” 

He was sitting in a leathern armchair in the failing 
light, and she was struck afresh by his frailty and the 
deathly whiteness of his face. 

“Will you excuse my getting up?” he said. “I have had 
one of my bad attacks and they leave my heart very weak. 
Come and sit down, Miss Thorold, and give me the 
pleasure of a chat with you.” 

She went forward, keenly aware of Arthur standing 
motionless before the fireplace, but not glancing at him as 
she passed. She reached Mr. Dermot, and took the hand 
he extended. It was icy-cold and trembling, and it seemed 
to her that there was something almost appealing in the 
way it clung to hers. 

“I am so sorry you have been ill,” she said. 

“Yes, we are a sad household—a sad household,” he 


224 


Tetherstones 


made answer. “I am told the little one is very ill—the 
little blind girl who lives with us. Can you tell me what 
is the matter with her? Some childish ailment, I sup¬ 
pose ?” 

As it were agairfst her will, Frances glanced at 
Arthur. His eyes looked straight back at her from under 
frowning brows. He spoke briefly, coldly. 

“I think you have been informed before, sir, that the 
child would not live to grow up. Perhaps under the cir¬ 
cumstances it is hardly to be desired that she should.” 

“Under what circumstances?” said Mr. Dermot, and 
his voice was as cold as his son’s, but with an edge of 
satire that was to Frances even more unbearable than the 
studied indifference of the younger man’s utterance. 
“Since when, may I ask, have you been a qualified judge 
as to the relative values of life and death?” 

Arthur made a very slight movement that might have 
denoted either protest or exasperation. “I referred to 
her infirmity,” he said. 

Mr. Dermot laughed, a soft, bitter laugh, and Frances 
shivered. She felt the tension between the two men to be 
so acute as to be near the snapping point, and wondered 
desperately what mistaken impulse had brought her 
thither and how she might escape. But in a moment the 
old man addressed her again, and there came to her a 
curious conviction that in some fashion she was needed. 

“Will you not sit down, Miss Thorold,” he said, “and 
take tea with me? I do not have my meals with my 
family as, on account of the weakness of my heart, quiet 
is essential to me. You were just going”; he turned very 
pointedly to his son; “will you be good enough to ask 
Elsie to bring tea for Miss Thorold as well as for my¬ 
self?” 

He spoke with frigid politeness as if addressing a 


The Exile 


225 


menial, but there was a quaver in his voice that betrayed 
him. Frances realized very clearly in that instant which 
of the two men had the upper hand, and the realization 
was as a heavy weight laid upon her. She shook it off 
with conscious effort, telling herself that it mattered 
nothing to her at least since she had gained her freedom. 

Arthur made no move of any sort in response to his 
father’s request. He stood as before, grim as a gaoler, 
looking straight across at her. 

Very steadily, with a certain stateliness that was hers 
upon occasion, she took the chair the old man had indi¬ 
cated. ‘‘That is very kind of you,” she said to him. “I 
should like it very much.” 

His smile of pleasure warmed her heart. “I assure you 
it will be the greatest treat to me,” he said. “It is hard 
to have to lead the life of a hermit. I have my books, 
and I am also writing—or I should say I have collected 
material to write—an exhaustive treatise upon the Stones. 
I think I told you of my intention the last time we met, 
and you very kindly offered to help me.” 

“I would gladly do anything in my power,” said 
Frances, moved, as she had been moved before, by a cer¬ 
tain forlornness in his attitude. 

“Ah!” He nodded with obvious gratification. “That 
is kind of you. And I am sure you would be interested. 
There is so much that is strange and indeed almost un¬ 
canny about this subject.” He turned again to his son 
with elaborate courtesy. “We need not detain you here. 
I am aware that this matter is one that holds no appeal 
for a brain like yours, and I have no desire to bore you 
with it.” 

“Very good, sir.” Arthur made a sudden movement 
as one who has come to a decision. “I will go.” He 
went to the door, and there paused, looking back, almost 


226 


Tetherstones 


as if irresolute, then abruptly wheeled again. ‘‘I will send 
in tea,” he said, and was gone. 

They heard him tramp heavily down the passage, and 
it seemed to Frances that a shudder went through the 
frail old man lying back in the armchair. He made a 
weary movement with one hand as one who would dismiss 
a distasteful subject. 

‘‘Tell me a little more about your book!” she said 
gently. 

He looked at her, and she saw his eyes kindle in the 
dimness. 

“I am going to ask you to tell me something first,” he 
said. “It all bears upon the same subject. This illness 
of the little blind girl which they say is so serious, is it 
in any way connected with the Stones—with any so-called 
accident that occurred there ?” 

He leaned slowly forward with the words, and though 
they were deliberately uttered there was an eagerness 
vibrating in them that made her wonder. 

“Has no one told you about it?” she said. 

“No one—no one. I am treated as a nonentity always.” 
He spoke fretfully, querulously. “I believe it is on ac¬ 
count of my health, but I often think my health would 
improve if I were allowed to lead a more normal life. My 
son has relegated to himself the rulership of this establish¬ 
ment, and everyone is made to bow down to him. I am 
told—nothing. I am consulted—never.” 

“He leads a hard life,” Frances said. “Perhaps it has 
made him hard.” 

“No, no! It isn’t that. It is just the passion for 
ruling. Let me warn you against him, Miss Thorold! 
Never allow him to attain any sort of influence over you, 
for he is a difficult man to thwart. You would not like 
to be bound to him for life. It would break your heart.” 


The Exile 


227 


He paused a moment and made again that gesture as of 
dismissing an unpleasant topic. “But now,” he said, 
“about the little girl—you were going to tell me. Some¬ 
thing happened to her up at the Stones. What was it? 
Do you know what it was ?” 

Frances looked at him. His voice was tremulous, and 
yet she had a curious conviction that it was not solely 
anxiety for little Ruth that made it so. She considered 
for a moment before replying. 

“She had a fall,” she said then. 

“Ah! Was it near the Rocking Stone?” Mr. Dermot 
sat slowly forward. “You will tell me,” he said. “I am 
sure you will tell me.” 

Again Frances hesitated. If the details of Ruth’s acci¬ 
dent had purposely been kept from him, was she justified 
in enlightening him? 

“I only know what I have been told since,” she said. 
“They found her lying unconscious, and it was evident 
that she had had a fall.” 

“And that is all you know? You cannot tell me who 
found her or why she went?” Suppressed excitement 
sounded in the words. Mr. Dermot was gripping the arm 
of his chair, and the bones of his knuckles stood out 
sharply. “I am very anxious to know all,” he said. 
“They try to keep it from me, but it is wrong—it is 
wrong. She had a fall, you say? Was she—was she— 
alone when she fell ?” 

“I believe so,” Frances said. “In fact, I am sure of it, 
for they say she was not found for some hours after.” 

“Ah!” The old man relaxed so suddenly that he al¬ 
most fell back into his chair. “That is what I wanted to 
know. She was alone. They say so.” He broke off, 
panting a little; but in a moment or two recovered him¬ 
self sufficiently to smile at her. “Now that,” he said, 


228 


Tetherstones 


“gives colour, does it not, to the local rumour that the 
powers of evil are in some mysterious way permitted to 
haunt the Stones. This is a very interesting point, Miss 
Thorold. Can her fall have been due to something of 
this nature? Are you a believer in the occult?” 

“Not to that extent,” said Frances, suppressing a chill 
shiver. “I think it was perfectly easy for the poor mite 
to fall, considering her blindness.” 

“Ah, yes. They should not have let her wander so 
far. There is always the danger of a false step. But 
she is young. She may recover—she may recover. While 
there is life, there is hope; and if not,—there is the life 
beyond.” 

He spoke gently, a faint smile on his grey features, and 
again Frances was touched in a fashion she could hardly 
have explained. He was so old, so tired, so near to the 
life beyond of which he spoke. 

She said nothing, and in a few moments Elsie came in 
with a tea-tray. She looked at Frances, round-eyed, as 
she sat it down, but somewhat to her surprise she gave 
her no word of greeting. 

“Arthur said you would like your tea in here,” she 
said. “Is that right?” 

“Yes, Miss Thorold is my guest to-night,” said the old 
man. “Will you pour out, Miss Thorold?” 

Frances complied. Elsie hovered about the room as 
if uncertain whether to go or to remain. 

Mr. Dermot paid no attention to her for some seconds, 
then very suddenly he seemed to awake to the fact of her 
presence. He turned in his chair. 

“Pray return to your work in the farmyard!” he said. 
“I am sure you have no time to spare for the ordinary 
civilities of life.” 

His tone was quite quiet, but the words amazed 


The Exile 


229 


Frances. The girl to whom they were addressed merely 
nodded and turned to the door. She went out in silence, 
leaving it open behind her. 

“They always do that,” said Mr. Dermot, with a sort of 
weary patience. “I wonder, might I trouble you to shut 
it?” 

Frances rose to do so, her mind still full of wonder 
at the curious attitude he had adopted towards his 
daughter. 

“You think it strange,” he said, as she sat down again, 
“that there should be so great a lack of sympathy between 
certain members of my family and myself. But I assure 
you it did not originate with me. I am a student, Miss 
Thorold, and perhaps it is not surprising that those who 
devote the whole of themselves to manual labour on a 
farm should find it difficult to keep in touch with me. 
It is said that if you associate with the animals you will in 
time assimilate their characteristics. This has already 
happened to Arthur, and some of the girls are following 
in his footsteps. Milly is the only one who has shown 
no outward sign of deterioration since we came to 
Tetherstones. It is a very insidious evil, and it spreads 
—it spreads.” He sighed. “I foresaw it before we came 
here. I was never in favour of the scheme, but—I was 
overruled. We have a tyrant among us whose will is 
law.” 

“Then you don’t like Tetherstones?” Frances said. 

She saw again an extraordinary gleam in his eyes as 
he made reply. “You might ask a convict how he likes 
Princetown,” he said. “My place is at Oxford, but I 
have been torn from it and made to endure life in the 
desert all these years.” 

“But a very beautiful desert,” suggested Frances. 

He made a wide gesture of repudiation. “What is that 


230 


Tetherstones 


to an exile ? When you have been made to eat stones for 
bread, you will not notice if they are beautiful to look at.” 

“I can understand that,” she said. “Yet a sense of 
beauty is sometimes a help. At least I found it so when 
I was at Burminster.” 

“Ah! Burminster!” He repeated the name thought¬ 
fully. “Did you ever meet anyone there of the name of 
Rotherby?” 

“Why, yes.” She started a little, remembering 
Arthur’s attitude. “I was with Dr. Rotherby who is the 
Bishop of Burminster.” 

“Yes—yes.” He nodded gravely. “We were at Ox¬ 
ford together. He left and I remained. So he is at 
Burminster! You were not happy with him?” 

Frances hesitated. “Not very,” she admitted. 

He nodded again. “A hard man—a hard man! And 
did you ever meet his nephew—Montague?” 

She felt the colour leap to her face. “Yes, I have met 
him,” she said. 

“Ah! He is a friend of yours,” said the old man, 
with quiet conviction. “A close friend?” 

She did not know how to answer him. No words 
would come. But in that moment to her intense relief 
she heard a step outside. The door opened, and Mrs. 
Dermot entered. 

“Arnold,” she said, “I am sorry to disturb you, but 
Dr. Square is here. He will be down immediately to see 
you. May he come in?” 

The old man turned towards her with a fond smile. 
“My dear,” he said, “any pretext is welcome that brings 
you to my side.” 

Frances got up, thankful for the interruption. “I will 
go to the kitchen if I may,” she said. “Maggie is there.” 

“We need not drive you away,” protested Mr. Dermot. 


The Exile 


231 


But she was already at the door. “Perhaps—later,” 
she said, and was gone before he could say any more. 
The closing of the door behind her gave her a sense of 
escape from something terrible which she told herself 
was utterly unreasonable. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE CHAIN 

The kitchen-door was half-open. She pushed it open 
and entered. Then sharply she drew back. It was raining 
and the place was in semi-darkness. Only a red glow 
from the great open fireplace lighted it, throwing into 
strong relief the old black rafters. And in this glow, 
seated at the table facing her, but with his head upon his 
hands, was a man. 

He did not stir at her entrance. It was evident he did 
not hear her, and for a moment her impulse was to go as 
suddenly and silently as she had come. But something 
in that bowed silvered head checked her. She stood still, 
and in a second a whine of greeting from under the table 
betrayed her. Arthur sat upright with a jerk, and Roger 
came smiling out from his place at his master’s feet to 
welcome her. 

It was Roger who saved the situation. She stooped to 
fondle him, and in so doing recovered her self-possession. 
Standing up again, she found that Arthur also was on 
his feet. They faced each other once more in the firelight, 
and the beating of the rain upon the thick laurel bushes 
outside mingled with the dirge-like monotony of the 
dripping eaves filled in that poignant pause. 

Arthur spoke, his voice low and constrained. “Come 
and sit down! I’m just going.” 

The awful pallor of his face, the misery of the eyes that 
232 


The Chain 


233 


avoided hers, went straight to her heart. She moved 
forward, urged by the instinct to help, forgetful of 
everything else in the rush of pity that surged through 
her. 

“Don’t go because I am here!” she said. 

He had turned already to the outer door. He paused 
with his back to her, and took up his cap from a chair. 

“It was not my fault you were sent for,” he said. “It 
was done against my wish—without my knowledge.” 

The words were curt, emotionless. Why did she feel 
as though she were in the presence of a sorely-wounded 
animal ? 

“Don’t go!” she said again, and somehow the words 
seemed to utter themselves; she was not conscious of any 
effort of her own by which they were spoken. “There 
is no need for you to go.” 

“No need!” He still stood with his back to her. His 
hand was on the door, but he did not go. “Did you say 
that ?” he said, after a moment. 

“Yes.” She came forward slowly, and still it did not 
seem to be of her own volition that she moved or spoke. 
“I haven’t come back to make trouble—only to try and 
help—if I can.” 

“Yes. I understand,” he said, and his voice came half- 
strangled, as though he fought some obstruction in his 
throat. “Square told me.” 

She stopped at the table. “Have you been having tea ? 
I thought Maggie was here.” 

“She has gone out with Elsie. Milly went upstairs to 
Dolly. I don’t know where the others are.” 

Again curiously something in his voice pierced her. It 
had a deadened quality—was it utter weariness—or 
smothered pain? 

“Have you had tea?” she asked. 


234 


Tetherstones 


His hand wrenched at the door-handle. The door 
opened and a drift of rain blew in. But still he paused. 

“I haven’t had mine,” said Frances. 

He turned almost with violence and the door shut be¬ 
hind him. “Why haven’t you had yours ? I thought Elsie 
brought it to you. I told her to.” 

He looked at her, heavily scowling, for a moment, then 
again averted his eyes. 

“Don’t be angry!” she said gently. “She did bring it, 
but I didn’t stay to drink it because your mother said the 
doctor was here. Do you mind if I have some now?” 
She looked round the table that had been cleared, then 
turned to the fire. “The kettle is quite hot. It will soon 
boil.” 

He came back into the room. There was something 
about him at that moment upon which she could not look. 
He went to the dresser, and she heard the clatter of cups 
and saucers. She knew he was laying the table behind 
her, but she remained with her face to the fire. 

Suddenly he was beside her. He took up the simmer¬ 
ing kettle and forced it down into the heart of the fire, 
keeping his hand upon it. 

“You will burn yourself!” she said. 

He answered nothing, merely stood doggedly bent over 
the glow till the kettle spluttered and boiled. Then he 
lifted it, and turned back to the table. 

Frances turned also. Mutely she watched him pour 
water into the old metal tea-pot. The haggardness of his 
face, the grim endurance of his set jaw, struck her afresh. 
She wondered if he were ill. 

He set down the kettle and drew up the horse-hair chair 
with the wooden arms that she so well remembered. 

“Sit down!” he said. 

She obeyed him, finding no words. 


The Chain 


235 


He cut a slice from a loaf and began to toast it, Roger 
pressing closely against his gaitered legs. 

Very suddenly his voice came back to her again, hol¬ 
low, strained, oddly vibrant. “I should like you to know 
one thing. Though you have come back here against my 
will, you have—nothing to fear. I recognize it was— 
an act of—charity—and, so far as I am concerned, you 
are safe. I will never get in your way.” 

“Thank you,” Frances said quietly. “I am not afraid 
of that.” 

He made a jerky movement, but instantly checked him¬ 
self, and turning the bread upon the fork, maintained his 
silence. She wondered what was passing behind that 
tensely restrained front, what torment was at work 
within him to produce the anguish of suffering which she 
sensed rather than saw. But he gave her no clue of any 
sort. He remained bent and silent till his task was fin¬ 
ished. 

Then he brought the toast and set it before her. “Can 
you pour out your own tea?” he said. 

She looked up at him, gravely resolute. “Mr. Dermot, 
please join me!” 

He made a sharp gesture that was more of protest than 
refusal. “Afraid I can’t stay. I’ve got to see Oliver.” 

“You can if you will,” she said steadily. “That isn’t 
your reason. You can see Oliver afterwards.” 

He gave in abruptly, in a fashion that surprised her. 
He dropped down on to the wooden chair he had occupied 
at her entrance, and propped his head on his hands. 

“My God!” he said, under his breath. “My God!” 

Then she knew that his endurance was very near the 
breaking-point, and the woman’s soul in her rose up in 
strength to support his weakness. 

She got up to take another cup from the dresser, then 


236 


Tetherstones 


poured out some tea and took it to him on the other side 
of the table. He did not attempt to stir at her coming, 
but the hands that supported his head were clenched and 
trembling. 

She bent over him, all thought of fear gone from her. 
“Here is your tea,” she said. “Can you drink it?” 

He moved then, reached out suddenly and grasped her 
wrist, drawing her hand over his face till her palm was 
tightly pressed upon his eyes. 

“My God!” he said again, almost inarticulately. “Oh, 
my God—my God!” 

A dreadful sob broke from him, and he caught his 
breath and held it rigidly till the veins in his temples 
stood out like cords. 

Frances looked on mutely till she could bear it no 
longer. Then very gently she laid her other hand upon 
his shoulder. 

“Ah, don’t!” she said. “Don’t! Let it come! It will 
be easier to bear afterwards. And what do I matter?” 

She felt a great shiver go through him. His hold upon 
her hand was as the clutch of a drowning man, and sud¬ 
denly she felt his tears, slow and scalding, oozing be¬ 
tween her fingers. He bent his head lower and lower, 
striving with himself, and she instinctively turned her 
eyes away, averting them from his agony. 

So, for what seemed an interminable space of time, 
they remained. Then at last the man spoke, jerkily, with 
difficulty, yet with returning self-mastery. 

“It’s no good crying out. It’s got to be endured to the 
end.” He paused; then: “I don’t often cry out,” he said 
and she thought she caught a note that was almost of 
appeal in his voice. 

“We are all human,” she said. 

“Are we ?” He raised himself abruptly with the words, 


The Chain 


237 


and leaned back in his chair, looking straight up at her, 
her hand still grasped in his. “Are you human ?” he said, 
as if challenging her. “I don’t believe you are.” 

His eyes were burning. They had the strained look 
that comes from lack of sleep. A brief misgiving as¬ 
sailed her, but she put it firmly away. She met his look 
unflinching. 

“Yes, I am human,” she said. 

“Then how you must hate me!” he said. 

She shook her head in silence. 

“Why do you do that?” he said. “Are you afraid to 
tell me so?” 

“No,” she said. “I don’t hate you.” 

“Why not?” he said. 

She hesitated momentarily. Then: “It may be be¬ 
cause I don’t know you well enough,” she said. 

There was something in his eyes that besought her. 
Again involuntarily she thought of a wounded animal. 
“Not well enough to hate me?” he said.’ 

“Not well enough to judge,” she answered quietly. 

She saw his throat move spasmodically. His eyes left 
hers. “I would rather be hated—than tolerated—by you,” 
he said, almost under his breath. 

His hold upon her had slackened; she slipped her hand 
away. “Won’t you have your tea?” she said. “I am 
sure you will feel the better for it.” 

He made an odd sound that might have been an effort 
at laughter, and stretched out his hand for the cup. 

She stood beside him while he drank, and took it from 
him when he had finished. “Eat some toast while I pour 
you out some more!” she said. 

“I made the toast for you,” he said. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she returned. 

“It does matter.” He leaned across the table for the 


238 


Tetherstones 


loaf. Bread will do for me. And you will drink some 
tea yourself before you give me any more.” 

She heard the dominant note returning in his voice. “I 
shall do as I think best,” she said, but she complied, for 
something in the glance of those fevered eyes compelled. 

They ate and drank together thereafter in unbroken 
silence until he rose to go. Then, his cap once more in 
his hand, he paused, looking across at her. 

“So you have decided to reserve judgment for the 
present?” he said. 

She met his look steadily, though her heart quickened 
a little. 

“For the present—yes,” she said. 

He still looked at her. “And if you find—some day— 
that I can behave other than as a brute-beast, will you 
perhaps—manage to forget?” 

To forget! The word, uttered so humbly, brought 
the quick tears to her eyes. She turned her face aside. 

“Why don’t you ask me to—forgive?” she said, her 
voice very low. 

“Because I won’t ask the impossible,” he answered. 
“Because you tell me you are human, and—well, some 
things are past forgiveness. I know that.” 

He swung round with the words. She heard him open 
the door, heard again the drip and patter of the rain out¬ 
side, heard the heavy tread of his feet as he went out. 

Then, when she knew that she was alone, her strength 
went from her. She covered her face and wept. 

In that hour she knew that she was chained indeed, be¬ 
yond all hope of escape. Brute-beast as he described 
himself—murderer at heart as she believed him to be— 
yet had he implanted that within her heart which she 
could never cast out. Whatever he was, whatever he did, 
could make no difference now. She loved him. 


CHAPTER VII 

THE MESSAGE 

“The doctor says it can’t possibly go on much longer.” 

“But if it does—if it does-” 

“Oh, Lucy, do stop crying! What’s the good? You’ll 
make yourself ill, child, if you go on.” 

“I can’t help it—I can’t help it. Mother looked like 
death just now.” 

“That’s only because of something the Beast said. 
Oliver told me-” 

The voice sank to a lower whisper as in the old days 
behind the screen, and Frances, seated in a low chair be¬ 
side the bed, tried not to strain her ears to listen. She 
wished the two girls would leave the adjoining room 
and go to bed, but they had been placed there by Dolly 
while she snatched a brief rest, and she did not like to 
intervene. So she sat there motionless, watching a great 
moth that had come in from the night and was fluttering 
round and round the ceiling in the arc of light cast 
upwards by the shaded lamp at her side, and listening to 
Lucy’s fitful sobbing in the other room and Nell’s some¬ 
what rough and ready efforts to comfort her. 

The very thought of tears seemed out of place in that 
quiet room, for Ruth was as still and as peaceful as an 
effigy upon a tomb. She was not asleep; of that Frances 
was fully convinced. But she was utterly at rest, con- 
250 




240 


Tetherstones 


tent so long as her friend remained beside her to lie in 
that trance-like repose and wait. 

The soft night air blew softly in upon them, laden 
with the scent of the moors. The magic of it went to 
Frances’ inmost soul. She felt as if in some fashion 
the message of which the child had spoken was being 
wafted in from those star-lit spaces, but as yet it had no 
words. Only the burden of it was already in her heart. 

A long time passed thus; then there came a movement 
in the adjoining room. The whispering was renewed 
for a moment, and ceased. The white-haired mother 
entered, and as before, Ruth spoke. 

“My dear Granny!” she said softly. 

Mrs. Dermot motioned to Frances not to move. She 
came to the other side of the bed and knelt down. “Shall 
we say our prayers, darling?” she said. 

“Abruptly Frances realized that someone else had 
entered also, though she had heard no sound, and look¬ 
ing up she saw Arthur standing just within the door¬ 
way between the two rooms. 

He stood there motionless until his mother began to 
murmur the Lord’s Prayer, then noiselessly he crept for¬ 
ward and knelt close to the foot of the bed. 

It came to Frances then, and she never questioned the 
impulse, to slip to her knees beside him. And in the 
hush of that quiet room, she prayed as she never prayed 
before. 

Mrs. Dermot’s gentle voice went unfaltering on to the 
evening hymn. 

“Abide with me, fast falls the eventide, 

The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide, 

When other helpers fail and comforts flee, 

Help of the helpless, O, abide with me.” 


241 


The Message 

Verse after verse very softly she repeated to the dying 
child, and at the last Ruth’s voice joined hers, low and 
monotonous, murmuring the words. 

“Hold Thou Thy Cross before my closing eyes, 

Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies, 
Heaven’s morning breaks and earth’s vain shadows flee, 
In life—in death—O Lord, abide with me.” 

The two voices ceased, and there fell a deep silence. 
How long it lasted Frances never knew. She was as one 
kneeling in a holy place, too near to the spiritual to reck 
of time. But gradually, as she knelt, there dawned upon 
her the consciousness of another presence in that chamber 
of Death. It did not surprise her when Ruth’s voice, 
quiet and confident, spoke in the stillness. “This is my 
mother!” she said. “She came to me that night at the 
Stones and stayed with me so as I shouldn’t be fright¬ 
ened. She said she would come again if God would let 
her. Isn’t He kind?” An odd little quiver of rapture 
ran through the words. 

“He is always kind to His little ones, my darling,” 
said Mrs. Dermot very tenderly. “ ‘He shall gather the 
lambs with His arm and carry them in His bosom.’ ” 

“That is what my mother told me,” said the child. 
“She says—she says—that if we only knew how beauti¬ 
ful it is on beyond, we should never mind going, or cry— 
ever—for those who went. You won’t cry when I’ve 
gone, dear Granny, will you?” 

“Not for you, darling,” Mrs. Dermot whispered back. 

“Nor for my mother any more,” said little Ruth. 
“She is quite happy. Do you see her? She is standing 
close to you and smiling. Don’t you see her, Granny?” 

“I know that she is here,” said Mrs. Dermot. 

“She is very, very pretty,” said Ruth in a hushed 


242 


Tetherstones 


voice, “much prettier than anyone else I know. Her 
hair is dark, and her eyes are lovely, like hare-bells. No 
one else has eyes like that.” Again the thrill of gladness 
was in her voice. “I can see her, Granny! I can see 
her!” said little Ruth. Then in a lower voice, slightly 
mystified: “I wonder why Uncle Arthur and Miss 
Thorold are so unhappy. I can see them too, but they 
are not so clear. I wish they were happy. I should see 
them more easily then.” 

Frances raised her head, but the blue eyes* were fixed 
upwards; it was the eyes of the soul that saw her, the 
voice of the soul that spoke. 

“Miss Thorold,” said the child, “the Stones are wait¬ 
ing for you. Don’t ever be afraid! They are going to 
give you something that you’re wanting—something that 
you’ve wanted always. I don’t know what it is, but that 
doesn’t matter. You’ll know it when you find it, be¬ 
cause it’s very big—bigger even than the Rocking Stone. 
And if you can’t find it by yourself, Uncle Arthur will 
help you. Only you’ll have to ask him—because it’s the 
only way.” Her voice began to drag a little. “He’s so 
lonely and so sad, and he never thinks anybody wants 
him. Often when you think he is cross, he is just un¬ 
happy. He has been unhappy for ever so long, and it’s 
getting worse. Grandpa doesn’t understand, but then he 
is so often away now. He has been away ever since that 
night I went to look for you at the Stones. I don’t know 
where he goes to, do you?” 

Frances hesitated, but at once Mrs. Dermot spoke in 
answer. 

“Granny knows where he is, darling. He is coming 
back soon. Don’t trouble your little head about him!” 

“Give him my love!” said Ruth. “I shan’t see him 
again, but he is too old to mind, and I am not big enough 


243 


The Message 

to matter. Will you ask Uncle Arthur to come quite 
close to me just for a minute? I want—I want to tell 
him something.” 

Arthur rose from his knees and moved to the head 
of the bed. His arm went round his mother as he 
stooped to the child. 

“I am here, Ruth. What is it?” 

There came a little gasp from the bed. “Will you— 
hold my hand?” said Ruth. “I—can’t see you quite well 
yet. Thank you, Uncle Arthur. Now I can tell you. 
Do you remember that night I found my dear Miss 
Thorold—up by the Stones—when she was frightened— 
and lost?” 

“I remember,” he said. 

“I found her—for you,” said the child. “God sent 
me and I went. I brought her back to Tetherstones—for 
you. I told her it was home because you were here— 
because I knew—somehow—that you wanted her. You 
do want her, don’t you, Uncle Arthur?” 

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he said. 

“It does matter,” said Ruth very earnestly. “Because 
when people want each other and haven’t got each other 
they are very unhappy—same as you, Uncle Arthur. 
And I don’t think she’ll ever find that big thing by the 
Stones unless you help her. You see—you see—” again 
the child’s voice flagged, she seemed to seek for words— 
“You see, there is—someone else. And if—if anyone 
else helps her, p’raps they won’t find the real thing at all, 
but something—something quite different. Don’t you 
see, Uncle Arthur ? Don’t you understand ? It’s hidden, 
and you’ll have to hunt and hunt before you find it. 
I shall know when you find it. But I shan’t be able to 
tell you how pleased I am. I shall only—be able—to send 
you—my love.” 


244 


Tetherstones 


The tired voice trailed off drowsily. Frances was 
anxiously watching the little white face on the pillow, but 
suddenly something drew her look upwards. She met 
the man’s eyes across the bed, and was conscious of a 
sense of shock. They were grim with a desperate endur¬ 
ance that pierced her like a cry. Though they met her 
own, they were fixed and desolate. Scarcely even did they 
seem to see her. 

Then again Ruth spoke with that soft thrill of glad¬ 
ness that made her think of the first faint call of a bird 
in the dawning. 

“My mother is waiting for me,” she said. “She is go¬ 
ing to take me out to the stars. Do you mind if I go, 
dear Granny? I would like to go so much.” 

There was a brief pause. Then: “I don’t mind, my 
darling,” Mrs. Dermot answered very softly, and added 
as if to herself, “God knows best.” 

“I shall always be happy with my mother,” said little 
Ruth. “And when you come, we shall all be happy 
together.” 

She sank into silence again, and for a space no one 
moved or spoke. Frances realized that Ruth’s breathing 
was getting feebler, but there was no distress of any 
sort. Like the flame of a spent candle the little life was 
slowly flickering out. 

She heard the soft stirring of the night-wind in the 
trees of the garden and the patter of falling rain-drops. 
And the great peace in which the world was wrapped 
came into the quiet room like a benediction, so that pres¬ 
ently she was scarcely aware of any other presence there 
than that of the Angel upon the threshold. 

It seemed to her a long while before Ruth spoke again, 
and then it was to utter her own name. 

“Dear Miss Thorold, are you there?” 


245 


The Message 

She rose up quickly. “Yes, darling, yes. What is it?” 

The blue eyes with their mysterious fire gazed straight 
up to hers. “You’ll find it up by the Stones,” said the 
child, “where the giant hare-bells grow. That is the mes¬ 
sage, dear Miss Thorold. And when you find it, keep 
it—always—always—always!” Her breath caught sud¬ 
denly, stopped, went on again with a gasp. “Because 
God sent it for you—and He wants you to have it. Do 
you understand? If you don’t, it doesn’t matter—so 
long as you keep on looking. You’ll know it when you 
find it, because it’s—it’s the most precious thing in the 
world.” She broke off, and for a few seconds it was as 
if she had forgotten to breathe, so still was she, so 
utterly without any suggestion of pain. Then, very 
faintly, her voice came again. 

“I’m very tired. Is my dear Granny there?” 

“I am here, darling,” came the patient answer from the 
bedside. 

“Will you kiss me good night?” said little Ruth. “I 
am going to sleep now.” 

On either side of the bed the man and the woman drew 
back, making way for the older woman. She bent and 
kissed the child, clasping her closely, murmuring fond 
words. 

So for a time they remained. Then there came a soft, 
fluttering sigh, and afterwards a great silence. And 
Frances knew that the child was asleep. 


CHAPTER VIII 


* 


THE MIRACLE 

“You won’t leave us?” said Maggie tremulously. 
“Please, you won’t leave us?” 

“If I can be of the slightest use here of course I will 
stay,” Frances answered, “for a time at least. But I 
can’t live on your kindness any longer. That is absolutely 
certain. I am beginning to make money by my sketches, 
and I must be allowed to pay my way.” 

“You will talk that over with Mother, won’t you?” said 
Maggie. “I know she doesn’t want you to go. None of 
us do.” She smiled tearfully. “Somehow we feel as if 
all the luck of Tetherstones would go with you, and there’s 
never very much of it at any time, as you may have 
noticed.” 

“I shouldn’t say that,” said Frances. “Fortune favours 
the brave, you know. You mustn’t let yourself lose heart.” 

“I try not,” said Maggie. “But it’s very difficult some¬ 
times. That night you went away to Fordestown was so 
terrible, and then—and then losing little Ruth! We 
thought there would have to be an inquest, but Dr. Square 
is so good, and he managed everything for us. Of course 
our darling was not like other children. We all knew 
that, and that we shouldn’t have her always. But that 
doesn’t make it any easier, does it?” 

“My dear, don’t cry!” said Frances gently. “I am sure 
there is a happy time in front of you. Just keep looking 
up! You will see very soon that the clouds are breaking.” 

246 


The Miracle 


247 


“I wonder,” whispered Maggie. “Well, I must go. 
There’s heaps to be done. Poor Mother is so tired when 
Father is ill.” 

“Is he better this morning?” Frances asked. 

“No, not much. He fainted three times during the 
night. Dolly of course is splendid. She and Mother and 
Arthur divide the nursing between them. At least, 
Arthur—or Oliver—is always within call in case of need. 
But the rest of us are not much good. So we just run 
round the farm,” said Maggie, preparing to depart 

“Is he fretting for little Ruth?” asked Frances. 

Maggie’s eyes opened wide; she looked startled for a 
moment. Then: “Oh, no! I doubt if he even thinks 
about her,” she said. “He never loved her as we did. 
He doesn’t love anybody except Mother. That’s what 
makes it so difficult.” 

“I wonder if I could help with him,” said Frances. 

“Oh, don’t think of it!” said Maggie. “It wouldn’t be 
fit for you.” 

But Frances did think of it notwithstanding. The seri¬ 
ous illness of the old man, so quickly following the death 
of little Ruth, had stirred her deepest pity for them all, 
and she longed to be of any use. They had done so much 
for her in her hour of need, and it seemed to her a heaven¬ 
sent opportunity to make some return. 

The work of the farm went on as usual now that little 
Ruth had been laid to rest. The general routine was un¬ 
changed. There was no sign of mourning. It was only 
in their hearts that the child’s passing had left a blank. 
The girls whispered together of her and sometimes wept, 
but no special corner was empty because of her. Like a 
will-o’-the-wisp she had dwelt with them and now had 
flitted away. All had loved her, all had cared for her, all 
missed her. But now that she was gone not one of them, 


248 


Tetherstones 


save perhaps the white-haired grandmother, could say 
that the removal of her daily presence had made any mate¬ 
rial difference. She had ever been a thing of the spirit, 
flower-like, contented, asking nothing of those around her, 
clinging closely only to one. And that one was the least 
likely of all to make any outcry. Patient and steadfast, 
she went her quiet way, and if she suffered, none knew it. 

Frances had come to regard her with a deep reverence. 
She understood now something of the nature of the bond 
that existed between mother and son. They were cast 
in the same mould. They faced life with the same de¬ 
termined fortitude. But whereas the one had definitely 
passed the age of rebellion and unrest, the other was still 
in the prime of life,—a gladiator to whom defeat was 
cruelly hard to bear. He might come to it in time, that 
stillness of resignation, but not till the fires of life had 
died down in his veins and there was nought of para¬ 
mount importance left to live for. Then she could im¬ 
agine such a state of mind supervening, but her whole 
soul revolted at the thought. And there were times when 
she was fiercely glad that he had not been able to hide 
his suffering from her. 

She saw but little of him during that time, but on the 
day of her talk with Maggie, she came upon him unex¬ 
pectedly towards evening, leaning upon the garden-gate 
in the gloaming, his pipe in his mouth. 

He straightened himself to let her pass, and, the last 
glow of the sunset being upon him, she saw again that 
sleepless look in his eyes that had before so moved her. 

She paused with the half-formed intention of making 
some casual remark; but words that were wholly different 
from those she had intended to utter came to her lips in¬ 
stead. 

“How tired you are!” she said. 


The Miracle 


249 


She saw his mouth take the old cynical curve. “But 
still not down and out,” he said. 

She realized at once that the subject was unwelcome, 
but she did not turn from it. Some impulse moved her in 
the face of his distaste. 

“I am wondering,” she said, “if perhaps I could be of 
use—relieve you and your mother a little. I should be 
very proud if you would let me try.” 

He caught at the word as though it stung him. 
“Proud! Miss Thorold, your pride is easily satisfied!” 

She faced him steadily. “Mr. Dermot, I mean what 
I say—always. I owe you a debt. I should like to repay 
it. But if you refuse to accept payment, I will at least 
not add to it any further. If you will not allow me to be 
of use to you, I shall leave to-morrow.” 

“His attitude altered on the instant, so suddenly that 
she was disconcerted. He leaned towards her with an 
odd gesture of surrender. “It is not a question of my 
allowing or disallowing,” he said. “You have me in the 
dust. Do whatever seems good to you—now and always. 
You come or go at Tetherstones exactly as you will.” 

His manner had a baffling quality, but she did not ques¬ 
tion the sincerity of his words; for she sensed a certain 
anxiety behind them that thrilled her strangely. 

“In that case,” she said, “will you let me stay—and 
help you?” 

He did not answer immediately, and in the brief silence 
she realized that he was putting strong restraint upon 
himself. Then: “You will stay,” he said, “if you will 
deign to do so. As to helping me—as to helping me—” 
he paused as if at a loss. 

Something moved her to fill in the gap. “If you will 
trust me in the sick-room,” she said, “I think I could be 
of use. May I not try?” 


250 


Tetherstones 


He drew a hard breath and turned half from her as 
though he would go away. Roger, standing by and 
eagerly watching his every movement, prepared to accom¬ 
pany him, and then, realizing his mistake, drooped his 
head dejectedly and resigned himself to further inactivity. 

Arthur spoke with his face averted. “It is not a ques¬ 
tion of trust, Miss Thorold. It is you yourself that I 
have to consider. You don’t quite know what you are 
asking, and it is difficult for me to tell you.” 

“You need not mind telling me,” she said. 

He made a gesture of impotence. “I’ve got to tell you. 
That’s the hell of it. If you stay here, you’ve got to 
understand one thing. My father is suffering from heart- 
disease, and, as you know, the heart and brain are very 
closely connected. His brain is affected.” 

“I am not surprised at that,” Frances said. “In fact, 
I had suspected it before.” 

He turned upon her with that goaded expression which 
but for its suffering, might have intimidated her. 

“What made you do that? What has he said to you?” 

“Oh, nothing very much,” she answered gently. “I 
have thought him a little vague from time to time. I 
noticed that he never seemed to regard little Ruth as an 
actual belonging, for one thing.” 

“Go on!” he said grimly. “You have noticed more than 
that.” 

She faced him candidly. “‘Yes, I have. I have noticed 
a great lack of sympathy between him and his family for 
which I could not imagine they were to blame.” 

“You never blamed me?” he said. 

She hesitated. “I think I always knew that you were 
very heavily handicapped in some way,” she said. 

He nodded. “Yes, damnably. But I won’t attempt 
to deceive you of all people, so far as I am concerned. I 


The Miracle 


251 

have a brutal temper, and I hate him! I hate him from 
the bottom of my soul—just as he hates me l” 

“Oh, stop!” Frances said, shocked beyond words by 
the deadly emphasis with which he spoke. 

He uttered a sound that was half-laugh and half-groan. 
“You’ve got to know it. Yes, he is my father, but I 
only endure him for my mother’s sake. I have wished 
him dead for years. I wish it more than ever now.” 

“Oh, hush!” Frances said. “Please don’t say it! Don’t 
think it! You will be so sorry afterwards.” 

“Why should I be sorry ?” he said sombrely. “Do you 
think I shall ever regret him? He who has all my life 
stood in the way of my gaining anything I hold worth 
having? It’s too late now. My chances are gone. And 
I don’t complain—even to you. As I say, his brain is 
affected. He suffers from delusions. I have got to bear 
with him to the end. So what is the good ?” 

She could not answer him. Only, after a few seconds, 
she said quietly, “I think I should be too sorry for him 
to—hate him.” 

“I wonder,” said Arthur. 

He stood for a few moments looking at her. Then, 
very abruptly: “Is that by any chance the reason why 
you don’t hate me?” he said. 

She met his look unflinching. “No,” she said. “At 
least not entirely.” 

“There is another reason?” he questioned. 

She bent her head. 

“And I am not to know what it is?” His voice was 
low but it held urgency. 

Her hand was on the catch of the gate, but still she met 
his look. “Mr. Dermot,” she said, “there is a French 
saying that applies very closely to you and to me. Do you 
know what it is ?” 


252 


Tetherstones 


“ ‘Tout comprendre est tout pardonner / " he said. 

She opened the gate. “Even so,” she said. “When that 
happens, you will know why I have not hated you.” 

She left him with the words, but not before the sudden 
fire of his look had reached her soul. As she went away 
down the garden-path, she knew that her limbs were 
trembling. But there was that in her heart which filled 
her with a burning exultation. The stones were turning 
to bread indeed. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE INVALID 

“Don’t take any notice of anything he says!” whis¬ 
pered Nurse Dolly. “Just sit beside him and keep him 
quiet! He’s got some queer fancies, poor old man. Sure 
you won’t mind them?” 

“Of course not,” Frances murmured back. 

“That’s right. And give him some bromide if he gets 
tiresome! Otherwise, that digitalis stuff. You under¬ 
stand, don’t you?” 

“Perfectly,” said Frances. 

“Then I’ll go,” said Dolly. “Be sure to call if you 
want anyone! I shall only be in the next room. I expect 
he’ll be quite good. He likes you. But don’t stand any 
nonsense from him! Because if once he gets the upper 
hand, he’s difficult.” 

“I am sure he will be good,” Frances whispered, with 
a pitying glance towards the pallid face on the pillow. 

“I daresay he will,” said Dolly. “He’s tired now. He 
may get a little sleep. It’s very good of you, Miss 
Thorold. He won’t stand anyone else near him, you 
know, except Mother. And it’s killing work for her.” 

“If you only knew how glad I am to be of some use to 
you at last!” Frances said. 

Dolly smiled. “You’ve made all the difference to this 
establishment already. There, I’ll go. Sure you’ve 
got everything you want?” 

“Everything,” said Frances. 

253 


•254 Tetherstones 

“Then good-bye! I’ll be back in two hours unless you 
call me sooner.” 

She nodded a cheery farewell and departed, softly 
closing the door behind her, leaving Frances to wonder at 
her endurance. For it did not take more than the most 
casual glance to tell her that the girl’s eyes were drooping 
with weariness. 

“They are all amazing,” she said to herself, as she sat 
down in a low chair within sight of the bed. “They never 
give in.” 

It was the afternoon of the following day and she had 
gained her end after a very brief talk with Mrs. Dermot 
who, somewhat to her surprise, had put but slight obstacle 
in her way. The fact that she herself was nearly dropping 
with fatigue possibly had some influence with her, but 
Frances was inclined to think that Arthur had already 
given his vote in her favour. For she had shown no sur¬ 
prise, only a wan gratitude that went to her heart. 

So for that afternoon the invalid was in her charge, 
and Frances was strangely elated by the trust reposed in 
her. The grimness of Tetherstones seemed to be mellow¬ 
ing day by day into a homely warmth that was infinitely 
precious to her. 

She had another reason also for elation on that golden 
afternoon of late summer, though with regard to this her 
feelings were decidedly mixed. A letter had been for¬ 
warded to her from Fordestown bearing a London post¬ 
mark, containing a further cheque for ten pounds from 
Montague Rotherby, and a few words scrawled within 
telling her that her sketches were sold and that the pur¬ 
chaser desired to see her in town with a view to commis¬ 
sioning more. The message was of the briefest, wholly 
business-like in tone. He wrote from a club, but he gave 
her an address in Mayfair at which his friend—a Mr. 


The Invalid 


255 


Hermon—was to be found, and offered to meet her him¬ 
self and conduct her thither if she would fix a date con¬ 
venient to her. 

It was an offer which she well knew she could not 
afford to refuse, though she would have given much to 
have received it from any other quarter. But since the 
means could not be of her choosing, since, moreover, it 
was inevitable that she should meet and finally convince 
Montague Rotherby that the concession he had so hardly 
won from her must be relinquished, she braced herself 
to face the situation with a stout heart. 

“They are all so brave here,” she said to herself. “I 
mustn’t be the one to shirk.” 

And then rather wistfully she smiled at the thought 
of classing herself as one of the inmates of Tetherstones 
—she who had fled in terror not so very long before. 
She wondered how it was that they had all with one con¬ 
sent refrained from any species of questioning upon that 
night’s doings. Arthur again, no doubt! But Arthur 
himself—how had he come to change his mind concern¬ 
ing her? Arthur who in his fury had so nearly taken 
another man’s life! 

She lacked the key to the puzzle and it was futile to 
turn it over and over. The fact remained that in some 
fashion she had been vindicated, and Arthur’s remorse 
was a thing upon which she could not bear to dwell. She 
wondered if she would ever understand all, but she knew 
that already she had pardoned. 

The afternoon sunlight slanted in at the open window. 
From where she sat she could see the steep rise of the 
moor that led up to the Stones. She pictured them in their 
stark grandeur—those mystic signs of a bygone age—the 
tetherstones of the prisoners and the terrible Rocking 
Stone that none might move out of its place, but that 


256 


Tetherstones 


even a child might sway. How many of those striving 
ones had been ground to death in their desperation, she 
wondered ? And now the sun shone upon that fatal place 
of sacrifice, and the giant harebells bloomed where the 
child who had never known darkness had wandered and 
lain down to sleep. Her thoughts dwelt tenderly upon 
little Ruth and her harebells—the flowers she had never 
seen yet knew and loved so dearly—the flowers to which 
she had likened her mother’s eyes! 

A feeble voice spoke in the stillness and her mind 
flashed back to her surroundings. 

“Nan, my dear, is that you?” it said. 

She heard the words and sat motionless, uncertain as 
to whether they were intended for her or not. Then she 
saw that the tired old eyes were looking straight at her, 
and she softly rose and went to the bed. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked. 

He looked up at her, frowning a little, as if there were 
something about her that he could not wholly understand. 
“Yes, dear, yes,” he said finally. “Bring your little 
sketching-block and sit down beside me! I should like to 
lie and watch you.” 

“I haven’t been doing any to-day,” she said. “But I 
have a book here. Would you like me to read to you?” 

He shook his head restlessly. “No, no, no! I am 
too tired for books. Bring your sketching! I should 
like that better than anything. The light is good enough, 
isn’t it?” 

“Oh, quite,” she said, “if you really wish it. But—” 
She stood hesitating, uncertain whether to comply with 
his request; for the sketch upon which she was just then 
engaged was one of little Ruth in the corn-field. She was 
making it while the memory was still fresh within her, 
and she planned to give it to Mrs. Dermot. 


The Invalid 


257 


The old man broke in upon her irresolution. “Go and 
fetch it! Go and fetch it! You know how I love to see 
you at work. They have kept you away from me for 
a very long time, my darling. Run and fetch it and 
come straight back!” 

His manner was urgent though he smiled upon her 
with the words. She decided swiftly that, whatever his 
delusion, it was better to humour him. She went quickly 
from the room, and ran down the passage to her own. 
Here she hastily collected her sketching materials, and 
was back again within two minutes of her departure. 

She found him anxiously watching the door, and she 
saw his eyes kindle afresh at the sight of her. “How 
like you, my dear!” he said. “There is no one else in the 
family who would have left me alone for a single second. 
They are always watching me, always watching me. I 
don’t know why.” 

He spoke querulously. 

She returned to her seat by his side. 

“I expect they think you might want something and 
there would be no one to give it to you,” she said. “Do 
you really want to see my latest sketch? You are sure it 
interests you?” 

“Yes—yes.” A touch of impatience sounded in the 
answer, but the next moment a thin old hand came out 
and patted hers. “My little daughter!” he said very 
fondly. “I can’t spare you to that brother of mine again. 
He keeps you too long—too long.” 

“I am very glad to be back,” said Frances gently. 

She looked down at the ivory-coloured hand with its 
nervous, clutching fingers, and was irresistibly reminded 
of the talons of a bird. When it closed upon her own, 
she was conscious of a sense of chill that almost amounted 
to shrinking. But still pity was uppermost in her mind, 


258 


Tetherstones 


pity for this frail old man whose hold on life was so weak 
and yet who seemed to cling to it with such persistence. 

His clasp relaxed after a moment. “Well, dear, let me 
see what you have been doing!” he said wearily. “I must 
not talk very much to-day. My heart is very tired. Have 
you more than one to show me ?” 

“No, only one,” she said. “There hasn’t been a great 
deal of time just lately.” 

“Ah!” He smiled. “The pomps and vanities! Is that 
it? You have been very gay, I hear? And that hand¬ 
some youngster—your cousin—what has he to say for 
himself? You will never contenance any serious atten¬ 
tion from him, my darling, promise me! He is in love 
with you, of course. They all are. You are so lovely— 
so lovely. But cousins, you know, cousins are only 
brothers and sisters once removed. Uncle Theodore 
would never permit it for a moment. Neither would I, 
dear. You know that. You are so beautiful. You will 
look higher than a near relation with a wild record like 
his. Pshaw! I am talking nonsense. You would never 
dream of marrying him.” 

“Never!” said Frances very decidedly, as he paused 
for her assurance. 

“Thank you, dear, thank you,” he said. “Now let me 
see your sketch!” 

She held it up in front of him, propped as he was upon 
the pillows, and there fell a long silence while he scru¬ 
tinized it. The picture was of Ruth standing among the 
sheaves in the sunlight, with her flower-like face up¬ 
raised, and in her little hands a trailing bunch of the 
golden corn. 

The old man looked at it intently with drawn brows. 
Finally, with a deliberation that was almost painful, he 
looked at her. 


The Invalid 


259 


‘‘Who is that child he said. 

She hesitated for a second; then: ‘‘Don’t you remem¬ 
ber little—Ruth?” she said gently. 

His frown deepened. “Little Ruth! You mean the 
blind child, I think—the little girl who lives with us ?” 

“Yes,” said Frances. 

“And this is that child?” He turned again to the 
sketch, gazing at it fixedly. “But why have you made 
her like Nan?” he said, in a troubled voice. “Nan wasn’t 
blind. She had eyes like bluebells.” His look came back 
to her. “Thank you, Miss Thorold,” he said courteously. 
“You have a very charming talent. Some day I hope you 
will allow me to conduct you to the Stones. I should 
much like to see a sketch of them from your brush, most 
especially of the Rocking Stone, regarding which there 
are some very interesting traditions. You have heard 
of some of them perhaps?” 

“I have indeed,” said Frances, laying her sketch out of 
sight with a feeling of relief. “I think it is rather a grue¬ 
some spot myself.” 

“It is—it is,” agreed Mr. Dermot. “The Rocking 
Stone has even been called the Slaughter Stone before 
now. If you ever visit it at sunset you will see a curious 
phenomenon. It is streaked here and there with crimson 
strata, to which the sunset light gives the appearance 
of freshly shed blood.” 

“Shall we talk of something else?” said Frances quietly. 

He lifted his brows. “Certainly,” he said, with a 
touch of hauteur. “I have no desire to discuss anything 
distasteful to you. In fact, our worthy doctor has warned 
me that conversation of any description should not be 
indulged in too freely. So pray take up your sketch and 
work, and I will lie and w T atch you.” 

There was a certain imperiousness in his tone which 


2 6 o 


Tetherstones 


reminded her of Arthur. She would gladly have left her 
sketch untouched, but she realized that to do so would 
not make for peace. She took it up again therefore with¬ 
out further words, and opening her box prepared to put 
in some minute touches. 

The consciousness of the old man closely watching her 
did not tend to help her, but after a few minutes the fas¬ 
cination of her art asserted itself, and she began to for¬ 
get him. She worked for some time without looking up, 
and the little blue-clad figure in the corn-field began to 
stand out in delicate outline. She knew, as her brush 
moved dexterously fashioning the image of her brain, 
that this was the best work she had ever done, and the 
delight of it quickened her blood. The thought of 
Rotherby’s letter came to her, and she made a mental note 
that she would answer it that very day and accept the 
suggestion he had made. Now that her chance had come 
to her, she could not afford to let it slip. She must seize 
and hold it with both hands. 

Her thoughts wandered back over the random words 
that old Mr. Dermot had just uttered. The name of 
Theodore had stirred her memory. It was the name of 
the Bishop of Burminster. She remembered how once 
in conversation with Arthur she had spoken of him and 
discovered that he knew him. Was it possible that they 
were related? 

Another memory suddenly flashed across her—a vivid 
and strangely compelling memory. The eyes of the blind 
child with their deep blue fire of the spirit—the eyes of 
a visionary which had so pierced her that she had almost 
turned away! She felt as if a scroll, hitherto sealed, were 
being unrolled before her eyes; and so strong was the 
impression that her fingers ceased from their task and she 
looked up. 


The Invalid 


261 


In a moment she was aware of a startling change in the 
old man in her charge. He had sunk down on the pil¬ 
lows, and his face was ghastly. 

She got up quickly, seizing a bottle of restorative as 
she did so. Then she saw that his lips were moving and 
was partially reassured. 

As she poured a dose into the medicine-glass, he spoke 
aloud. “You need not be alarmed. My heart is a little 
tired—a little tired. But it will not stop yet.” 

She bent over him, holding the glass to his pallid lips. 

He drank and paused. “I shall soon be better,” he 
said, and gasped for breath. A faint colour began to 
show once more in his face. He smiled at her and drank 
again. 

“I am so sorry,” she said, with deep self-reproach. “I 
ought to have seen.” 

“No—no,” he said, in his kindly, courteous fashion. 
“You must not blame yourself for that. I think I will 
have a little sleep. I shall not last much longer, but I 
shall live to see the Stones again—just once again—my 
Stones—the place of sacrifice—where my three-fold vow 
has been accomplished.” His voice began to trail off 
indistinctly. He closed his eyes. “The place of sacri¬ 
fice—” he murmured again, and then followed an odd 
jumble of words in which “mother, father, and child” 
came with unintelligible frequency until his utterance 
ceased altogether. 

Frances stood by his side, listening to his uncertain 
breathing while other words sprang up all-unbidden in her 
mind, almost finding their way to her lips. 

“From all evil and mischief, from sin, from the crafts 
and assaults of the devil,—Good Lord deliver us!” 


CHAPTER X 


THE WOMAN’S RIGHT 

“He is still sleeping very peacefully,” said Mrs. Der- 
mot, with a grateful look at Frances. “You had a very 
composing effect upon him this afternoon. I hope it did 
not tire you very badly.” 

It was supper-time, and they had met at the table in the 
old farm-kitchen, which Lucy and Nell had been spreading 
with the home produce. It was the one meal of the day 
at which the whole family as a rule assembled, but Dolly 
and Milly were absent on this occasion in the sick-room, 
and Arthur and Maggie had not entered. 

“It did not tire me at all,” Frances answered. “I was 
very, very glad to be of any use. I hope you will let me 
do it again.” 

“You are very good,” said Mrs. Dermot. “He will be 
better after this for a time. A long, unbroken sleep al¬ 
ways brings him back. Won’t you sit down?” 

“Did you sleep?” Frances asked. 

“Oh, yes, Mother slept,” said Lucy. “I took in her 
tea, and she never even knew.” 

“She needed it badly enough,” put in Elsie. “She’s 
been up three nights running.” 

“Ah, well, I expect I shall rest to-night,” said Mrs. 
Dermot, with her tired smile. “Oh, there you are, 
Arthur! I was just wondering. And Maggie,—where 
is she?” 


262 


263 


The Womans Right 

He had entered from the scullery. He stopped beside 
her chair. “Maggie? I don’t know where Maggie is. 
Somewhere about, no doubt. How are you, Mother? 
Better?” 

She looked up into his face, and Frances saw the flash 
of sympathy between them, realized for an instant the 
closeness of the bond at which till then she had only 
guessed, and felt as if she had looked upon something 
sacred. 

“I am all right, dear,” said Mrs. Dermot. “I have had 
a most refreshing sleep, thanks to Miss Thorold’s kind¬ 
ness. Your father will be much better when he wakes.” 

“Sit down, Arthur!” said Nell. “We want to begin.” 

He glanced round with a quick frown. “Where is 
everybody ? Maggie—Oliver! Why don’t they come in ? 
Go and call them, Elsie!” 

“I don’t know where they are,” said Elsie. “I’ve 
milked the cows and fed the horses and locked up. They 
went to market this morning, and I haven’t seen them 
since.” 

“Oh, rot!” he said. “They must have come back long 
ago. They are probably dawdling round somewhere. Has 
no one seen them? Nell, haven’t you?” 

Nell shook her head. “We’ve been busy iti the dairy, 
Lucy and I. Only came in in time to get the supper. 
What’s it matter? They’ll turn up.” 

He turned again to Elsie. “You say you locked up. 
Was the brown cob back?” 

“I didn’t go that way,” she said, with a touch of defi¬ 
ance. “It was only the cart-horses I saw to. Joe was 
there too. Oliver always does the cob.” 

“What does it matter ?” Nell said again. “Maggie can 
have her supper when she comes in. There’s no reason to 
wait for her.” 


264 


Tetherstones 


“It does matter,” he returned sternly. “I won’t have 
any of you out on the moors after dark, and you know 
it.” 

“My good man!” said Nell. “What do you think we’re 
made of?” 

He whirled upon her in a sudden tempest of wrath. 
“Don’t you dare to gainsay me! I mean it. I—will— 
not—have—you—out—after—dark. Is that plain 
enough? Damn it! Do you think I’ll be defied to my 
face ?” 

“My dear!” said Mrs. Dermot very gently. 

He looked down at her and curbed himself. “I’m sorry, 
Mother. But a chit like that—not eighteen!” 

“I am eighteen,” asserted Nell, crimson-cheeked. “And 
I won’t be kept in order by you. So there!” 

He turned his eyes upon her, and she shrank in spite 
of herself. “You will be kept in order by me,” he said. 
“You will go up to your room now—do you hear?—and 
stay there for the rest of the night.” 

“I!” said Nell. “What—now?” She stood gripping 
the back of the chair in which she had been about to seat 
herself. Her face had gone from red to white. Her 
eyes stared straight across the table at her brother. 

He answered her without moving, but his single word 
fell like a blow. “Now!” 

There followed a terrific silence, during which it 
seemed to Frances that the wills of the man and the girl 
were in visible conflict though neither stirred or spoke. 
In the end there came a faint gasp from Nell, and she 
turned to obey. 

Lucy started up with hysterical crying. “I’m going 
too, then—I’m going too!” 

“You will stay where you are,” Arthur said, without 
turning his gaze from the younger sister. 


265 


The Woman’s Right 

She dropped back sobbing in the chair, and Nell went 
wordlessly to the door. Slowly she opened it, slowly 
passed out and closed it again. 

Mrs. Dermot looked up at her son. “Elsie may take 
up her supper,” she said. 

He shrugged his shoulders. “She can do as she likes.” 
He moved to his own place and sat down. His look 
came to Frances. “Sorry to treat you to this exhibition,” 
he said. “But discipline must be maintained.” 

She met his look with the utmost directness. “Did you 
say discipline or tyranny?” she said. 

She expected anger, was prepared for it, even desired it. 
But he only smiled. 

“Yes, you may call it that,” he said. “But it’s in a 
good cause. Nell is getting above herself. She has got 
to learn. Lucy, sit up and behave yourself! You’ve 
nothing whatever to cry about. Good heavens, child! 
Why all this fuss?” 

Lucy sobbed some inarticulate words into her handker¬ 
chief, and abruptly Frances leaned forward. She spoke 
in a low tone, very urgently, to Arthur. 

“Let her run after Nell and fetch her back!” she said. 

She could not have said exactly what prompted the re¬ 
quest. It was not primarily pity for either of the two 
girls. It was the man himself who held her attention at 
that moment, and an overwhelming desire to move that 
iron will out of its undeviating course. 

But his reception of her interference was disconcerting. 
Instead of displaying the opposition she had anticipated, 
he spoke again to the still sobbing girl. 

“Dry your eyes, you silly girl, and go tell Nell to come 
back!” 

Lucy looked up with a gasp of sheer amazement, and 
Frances found herself gasping too at the utter unexpect- 


266 


Tetherstones 


edness of his action. Arthur’s face wore a cynical ex¬ 
pression, but he showed no sign of impatience. “Go on!” 
he said. “Go and fetch her back and be quick about it!” 

Lucy got up and slipped from the room. 

“Miss Thorold, may I give you some ham?” said 
Arthur. 

Their eyes met, and she caught a quizzical gleam in his 
that sent an odd feeling as of tension relaxed through her. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

He proceeded to carve the ham in silence, and as he 
did so there came the sound of wheels and a horse’s feet 
outside. 

“Here they are!” said Mrs. Dermot in a tone of relief. 

“I knew they wouldn’t be long,” said Elsie. 

Arthur’s face took an inscrutable look. He said nothing 
whatever. 

Elsie carried round the plates and they began the meal. 
After a brief pause Nell and Lucy came back into the 
room and silently resumed their places; but a considerable 
interval elapsed before the opening of the outer door into 
the scullery told of the entrance of the latest comers. 

Maggie came in looking flushed and nervous. Oliver 
entered behind her, swaggering a little, his bold eyes 
somewhat fierce. 

“Hullo!” he said. “That’s right. I said you’d begin. 
We’d better sit down as we are.” 

Maggie’s place was next to her mother. He pulled out 
the chair for her, and she dropped into it speechlessly. 

“What have you been doing?” said Arthur. 

He spoke quietly, but his tone was ominous. Maggie 
threw him one swift glance and then lowered her eyes. 

“Everything’s all right,” said Oliver, with a touch of 
aggressiveness. “We thought we’d make a day of it. 
I’ll tell you all about it presently.” 


267 


The Woman s Right 

“You’ll tell me now,” Arthur said. 

“Oh, all right.” Oliver stood with his hand upon the 
back of Maggie’s chair. He bent suddenly over her. 
“Sure you want me to tell, Maggie?” he said. 

She put up a trembling hand in answer. Abruptly he 
stooped lower and kissed her before them all. 

The violent overturning of Arthur’s chair as he sprang 
to his feet brought him upright again with a jerk. He 
broke in upon the other’s furious oath with quick speech 
that yet was not wholly uncontrolled. 

“Yes, you can damn as much as you please,” he said. 
“It won’t make a ha’porth of difference now. She is mine 
—for better for worse—and you can’t undo it. We were 
married to-day at Fordestown—after we’d sold the pigs.” 

“Married!” The single word fell with frightful force 
from Arthur’s lips. He put his hand suddenly to his head. 

Maggie crouched against her mother, and Mrs. Der- 
mot, pale as death, put her arm about her without a word. 

Then across the silence, shrill as the piping of a bird, 
came Nell’s voice. “Well played, Oliver! I wish you 
luck!” 

He turned to her with his winning boyish smile and 
gripped her outstretched hand across the table. 

“Thanks, little ’un! You’re a brick, and I’ll always 
remember it.” 

Elsie left her end of the table and came round to 
Maggie. Lucy cowered in her chair and hid her face. 

Arthur’s hand fell and clenched at his side. He 
spoke—not to Oliver, but to Maggie. 

“Is this true?” 

She looked up at him with an effort. Through quiver¬ 
ing lips she answered him. “Yes.” 

“You are—actually married—to this—damned—clod?” 

Oliver straightened himself sharply. “I’ll answer that 


268 


Tetherstones 


question,” he said. “Come outside and I’ll show you the 
exact stuff he’s made of!” 

But at that Maggie left her mother’s sheltering arm and 
got up. She stood between the two men, breathing very 
fast. 

“You shan’t fight about me,” she said. “You’ve no¬ 
thing to fight about, for I belong to Oliver and always 
shall, from now on. I’ve the right—as every woman has 
—to choose my own mate, and I’ve chosen. That’s all 
there is to it.” 

There was a simple dignity about her as she uttered 
the words that carried an irresistible appeal to Frances. 
Shaking as she was with agitation, the girl asserted her 
right of womanhood with a decision that none might 
question. 

Arthur did not attempt to question it. He merely 
lifted a hand and pointed to the door. 

“All right,” he said. “You can go—you and your 
mate. And you will never enter Tetherstones again.” 

He did not look at Oliver. He had scarcely looked at 
him from the outset. But at that the young man’s 
wrath boiled over, and he compelled attention. 

“You think that you and your blasted Tetherstones 
count a couple of damns with either of us, do you?” he 
said. “You think that because poor Nan broke her heart 
here, we’d be pining to do the same! You’re a damn’ 
fool, Arthur, that’s what you are. And now I’ve got what 
I want, I take pleasure in telling you so. You’re too 
grand a swell to fight the likes of me. You don’t fight 
your own labourers! No, I thought not. But you can’t 
prevent ’em telling you the truth or taking a woman out 
of your family and giving her happiness—common or 
garden happiness—in place of this infernal mass of cor¬ 
ruption you’re pleased to call your family honour. I’ve 


269 


The Woman’s Right 

got my honour too, but it’s not your sort, thank God. I’m 
just a plain man, and I’ve no frills of any kind. But I’ve 
got the right to marry the girl who loves me, and there’s 
no one on this earth can come between us now. If they 
think they can, well, let ’em try, that’s all. Just let ’em 
try 1” 

He moved with the words, and pulled Maggie to him, 
pressing her close to his side. But his eyes remained upon 
Arthur, hot with anger and superbly contemptuous of 
the other man’s superior strength. 

Arthur stood motionless. His look was turned upon 
Oliver, but he made no attempt whatever to check the 
fierce torrent of words so forcibly poured out. To 
Frances he had the look of the gladiator sorely wounded 
yet holding his ground for the sake of that honour which 
Oliver so bitterly denounced. And her heart went out 
to the man in a sudden wild rush of sympathy that seemed 
to sweep away all rational thought. She found herself 
on her feet and quivering with a burning desire to help 
him in some way, though how she knew not. The deadly 
pallor of his face, the awful fixity of his eyes, were more 
than she could bear. 

He spoke—this time to Oliver but he did not deign 
to waste a single word in answer to the furious challenge 
hurled at him. 

“Let me see your marriage certificate!” he said. 

His words fell with the utmost calm and Frances won¬ 
dered if she were the only one in the room who knew 
how cruelly deep was his wound. 

Oliver drew a hard angry breath, as though he found 
himself unexpectedly held in check by some force un¬ 
known. He stared for a moment, then with a sullen air 
thrust a hand inside his coat. He brought out a paper 
which he flung down in front of Arthur. 


270 


Tetherstones 


“There you are. You’ll find it all in order,” he said. 
“You won’t undo that knot in a hurry.” 

Arthur picked up the document, opened and scanned 
it, then held it in silence before his mother. She laid an 
imploring hand upon his. 

“Arthur—Arthur!” she said, an anguished break in 
her voice. “Don’t do anything in a hurry! I can’t lose 
another of my girls like my darling Nan.” 

“I’m afraid you have lost her, Mother,” he replied, with 
a species of grim gentleness, “since she has chosen to go.” 

“I haven’t chosen to go!” burst from Maggie. She 
turned and flung her arms closely about her mother. “If 
I have to go, it’ll be your doing, not mine and not Oliver’s. 
He’s willing to stay. He’s told me so. In fact, he was 
willing to go on here in the same old way, and not to tell, 
only I felt I couldn’t bear it. He’s thought of me and 
my happiness all through—all through. And we’ve loved 
each other for years. You don’t know what love is. You 
can never possibly understand. But Mother knows— 
Mother knows.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Dermot, and the tragedy of 
the quiet utterance was as though she stood beside one 
dead. 

There was a brief pause as of involuntary reverence, 
then Oliver spoke, his voice steady and deferential. “It 
was only for the mother’s sake we came back,” he said. 
“I’d sooner have gone to the other end of the world my¬ 
self. But—well, Maggie’s happiness was at stake, so I 
couldn’t.” 

“Maggie’s happiness!” An exceedingly bitter note 
sounded in Arthur’s voice. “Was it for Maggie’s happi¬ 
ness, may I ask, that you persuaded her to do this thing?” 

Oliver’s look flashed back to him. He stiffened himself 
afresh for battle. Couldn’t he see, Frances asked herself 


The Woman’s Right 271 

desperately? Were they all blind to the agony of this 
man’s soul? 

“Yes, it was,” he flung back hotly. “It was for her 
happiness. Don’t you dare to question that, Arthur Der- 
mot! You’re not in a position to question it. There’s 
not a woman on this earth who would trust her happiness 
to you. And you know it.” 

The blow went home. Frances felt as if it had been 
directed against herself. She did not need to see the 
stricken look in Arthur's eyes. She knew without see¬ 
ing, and on the instant she acted, for further inaction was 
unedurable. 

Before he could make any reply to the thrust, she was 
in the lists beside him. 

“You are wrong!” she said, and her voice rang clear 
and triumphant before them all. “You are utterly wrong! 
I would!” 

She turned to him quivering with the greatness of the 
moment to find his eyes upon her with that in them which 
thrilled her to the soul. 

She stretched forth a trembling hand. “I would!” she 
repeated, and this time she spoke to him alone. “You 
know I would!” 

He caught her hand and closely held it. “Yes, I know 
—I know!” he said. Then curtly to Oliver, “That’s 
enough for the present. Sit down and have some supper, 
you and Maggie too! We’ll discuss this thing in the 
morning. Frances, sit here!” 

He pulled forward a chair and she sat beside him at the 
head of the table. But save for that one brief command 
he did not speak to her or look in her direction again. 

No one else ventured to address a word to her. Only 
Mrs. Dermot leaned forward and gently pressed her hand. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE PERFECT GIFT 

The thing was done. Frances stood alone in the old 
ivy-covered porch looking out into the faint starlight and 
asked herself how she had come to do it. It had been the 
impulse of the moment, and she well knew that if she had 
taken time to consider she would never have acted upon 
it. But a power that was infinitely greater than herself 
had urged her, and she had had no choice. 

Now it was over. The inspiration had departed, and 
she waited with a certain chill apprehension for the com¬ 
ing of the man she loved. He had gone up to the sick¬ 
room with his mother, and she had slipped away from the 
rest, for she wanted to be alone when he came. He 
generally smoked his pipe upon the porch when the day’s 
work was done, and evidently Roger expected him to¬ 
night; for he shared her vigil, alert and friendly, his 
head within reach of her hand. 

It was a very peaceful evening, full of that wonderful 
moorland fragrance so dear to her heart, so quiet that she 
could hear the cart-horses munching the hay in their man¬ 
gers in the stable across the yard. From the kitchen quar¬ 
ters in the house behind her came the homely clatter of 
dishes being washed up, accompanied by the chattering 
of girlish voices. Elsie, Lucy and Nell were evidently 
discussing the dramatic events of the evening. She won¬ 
dered what they all thought of her, if Maggie and Oliver 
imagined that she had made that amazing declaration for 

272 


The Perfect Gift 


273 


their sakes. She wondered what Arthur thought. . . . 
A curious feeling of depression came upon her. She 
felt as if she were faced by an immensity too great to 
gauge. What had she done ? What had she done ?” 

Ah! His step at last! She turned with a hard-beating 
heart and met him face to face. 

She could not read his expression in the dimness, but 
she realized in an instant that there was none of the 
lover’s ardour in his coming. And the soul within her 
shrank like a frightened child. She stood before him 
trembling. 

He came to her and paused. “ Shall we go into the 
garden?” he said. His voice was low, constrained. She 
turned mutely, and they passed down the winding path 
between the hollyhocks and sunflowers side by side. 

On they went and on in utter silence till they came to 
the door in the jwall that led to the lawn and the cedar- 
tree. He opened it and she passed through. The door 
closed with a thud and he walked beside her again. 

The silence widened and became a gulf between them. 
The dew lay like a silver veil upon the lawn. She turned 
aside to the path leading to the nut-trees. And here at 
last in deepest shadow he spoke. 

“Frances!” 

She paced on, as though some remorseless Fate com¬ 
pelled. She knew then—it seemed to her that she had 
known all along—that the gulf was such as could not be 
bridged. 

She answered him with absolute steadiness. “You 
needn’t say any more. Let us go back!” 

He made a gesture with one hand that was almost vio¬ 
lent. “It isn’t always possible—to go back,” he said. 

“It is quite possible in this case,” she said quietly. 
“Perhaps it will make matters easier if I tell you that I 


274 


Tetherstones 


found out by accident some time ago that Maggie and 
Oliver were contemplating this step, and my sympathies 
have been entirely with them all through.” 

He gave a sharp start. “Maggie 1 Oliver! But why 
tell me this?” 

“Doesn’t it make it easier for you?” she said. 

“Why should it?” he demanded. And then abruptly, 
realizing the loophole she had made for him, “Oh, damn 
it, Frances! Are you trying to throw dust in my eyes— 
at this stage?” 

“Not in the least,” she returned, and now her pride 
came back to her and she lifted it grandly like a banner. 
“I am telling you the truth. My sympathies are, and al¬ 
ways have been, entirely with Maggie and Oliver. I may 
be very presumptuous, but I can’t stand by and see a 
great wrong done without making a very great effort 
to avert it. I have made my effort, and whether success¬ 
ful or not I have at least managed to prevent your acting 
in* this matter without consideration. That is all I 
have to say.” 

She was holding her banner bravely now, masking her 
own humiliation and his anguish of spirit also. For 
herein, it seemed to her, lay salvation for them both. If 
she could check the flood-tide of passion which she sensed 
in his restraint, if she could hold back the wild words that 
were fighting for utterance, she would be doing him 
service. And in serving him, she served herself. For 
thus has Love the Omnipotent ordained, that in the serv¬ 
ice of another we should find our own deliverance. 

Again the silence fell between them. They were walk¬ 
ing more slowly now in the gloom of the nut-trees. She 
realized that the tension was partially relaxed, but she 
did not dare to lower her flag. 

He spoke at last, his voice very quiet and sombre, with 


The Perfect Gift 


275 

something of the old iron ring. “What do you want me 
to do?” 

They reached the end of the nut-walk and she turned. 
Her agitation was wholly past, but her heart felt deadly 
cold within her. 

“I want you,” she said, “to try to understand that 
Maggie and Oliver have done no wrong, and to treat 
them with kindness.” 

“Is that all?” he said. 

She did not understand his tone. “Is it too much to 
ask?” she said. 

“No, it is very little—less than nothing. Do you think 
I care a damn what happens to either of them now?” 
His voice shook a little. 

She turned her face towards him as she walked. “Yes, 
you do care,” she said. “And that’s why it isn’t easy. 
But, Arthur, listen! There is no one on this earth who has 
the shadow of a right to interfere between a man and 
woman who love each other. When I say love, I don’t 
mean the mere physical attraction which so many mistake 
for love. I mean that holy thing, the love of the spirit, 
which nothing can ever change or take away. That is 
too sacred to be tampered with, and no third person should 
ever presume to touch it. It comes from God, and it should 
command our utmost reverence,—even our homage.” 

She spoke very earnestly, for somehow—in spite of that 
terrible coldness at her heart—it seemed essential that he 
should see this thing with her eyes. It lay with her—she 
knew it lay with her—to save him from committing a 
great wrong, and to avert another sorrow from Tether- 
stones. 

But as they paced on towards the open starlight in 
front of them, his silence seemed to hold but little hope. 
And the coldness grew and spread within her, paralysing 


276 Tetherstones 

her. She knew if this effort failed, she could not make 
another. 

Arthur spoke at last. “Are you suggesting that they 
should go on exactly as if this had not happened? If my 
father came to know of it,—it would drive him crazy.” 

“Your father need not know,” she said. “He is an 
old man. It rests with you, not with him.” 

“Ah!” He stood still suddenly. “That’s true. He 
can’t live for ever. How many years have I told myself 
that, and yet I always forget it. Frances!” His voice 
thrilled suddenly, and then as suddenly he stopped him¬ 
self. “No! I won’t say that to you. I’ll say just this. I 
see your point, and—I’ll act on it if I find I can. Does 
that satisfy you?” 

“Thank you,” she said. 

“Don’t!” he said sharply, and swung round to go on. 
“Don’t ever thank me! Just—believe in me—if you can!” 

“I can,” she said. “And I do.” 

They came out upon the path that wound about the 
dewy lawn, and walked back along it in silence. 

To Frances it was as if there were nothing more to be 
said, and yet it was in the words that had been left un¬ 
spoken that the true meaning of the interview lay. In 
some fashion she felt that a chapter in her life had been 
closed. She knew what lay before her. Her only course 
was to go, and she would not flinch from taking it. She 
would meet unswervingly the difficulties and trials of the 
way. She would keep her banner flying. For in that one 
word, her own name spoken as he had spoken it, the 
coldness had melted from about her heart, and whatever 
came to her now, she knew that, though inexplicably 
bound hand and foot like the prisoners of the tetherstones, 
he had poured out to her that which is greater than all 
things—the love of his whole soul—the perfect gift. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE PARTING 

‘Tll never forget what you’ve done for us,” said 
Maggie. “And I’m very sorry you’re going.” She spoke 
with great earnestness but the lilt had come back to her 
voice and the light to her eyes. She held Frances’ hand 
very tightly between her own. You’ll come back some 
day ?” she said. 

“I shall certainly come back to the moors,” Frances 
said, “to make my sketches.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Maggie. “Then you’ll let 
us know where you are. I couldn’t bear not to. You’re 
going up to London now?” 

“Only for a day or two—to see a friend who has found 
a purchaser for my work. I shan’t stay,” said Frances. 

“A friend?” Maggie gave her a curious look. “Is it 
—it isn’t—the friend you went away to see at Fordes- 
town?” 

“Why shouldn’t it be?” said Frances. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Maggie coloured suddenly and 
vividly. “I just wondered, that’s all. And then you’re 
coming back? You will come back, won’t you?” 

“I shouldn’t wonder if I came back to Mrs. Hearn,” 
said Frances. “But, Maggie, tell me what makes you 
ask about Mr. Rotherby! What do you know about 
him?” 


277 


278 


Tetherstones 


“Oh, I can’t tell you that,” said Maggie quickly. “I 
shouldn’t have asked. But Arthur knows him—and 
hates him. Please don’t let’s talk about him—and I 
wouldn’t go to see him if I were you. He’s a bad man. 
Ah, here comes Oliver to fetch you! Good-bye, dear 
Frances, and just a hundred thousand thanks for every¬ 
thing.” 

She responded warmly to Frances’ embrace, and re¬ 
turned to her butter-making with a song on her lips and 
gladness in her eyes. 

“Yes, I should just think we are grateful,” said Oliver, 
as he followed Frances out. “Arthur has been as decent 
as he knows how, and it’s all thanks to you. Hope you’ll 
make a match of it before long, Miss Thorold, when 
better times come. You won’t want to wait as long as 
we did.” 

They all treated her thus, as if her marriage to Arthur 
were a foregone conclusion, cheerily disregarding the 
fact that neither she nor Arthur had given them any 
justification for so doing. They had in fact barely seen 
one another since that night in the garden, now two days 
past; and she had even begun to wonder if he would let 
her go without a word of farewell. Old Mr. Dermot was 
better, would soon be downstairs again, they said, and his 
son had returned to his work on the farm, appearing only 
at meals and then for very brief intervals. 

She had taken leave of everyone else, save Oliver who 
was to drive her to the station, and time was too short 
for lingering. She gave up hope at last, as she climbed 
into the cart. Roger was nowhere to be seen, so evi¬ 
dently his master was not in the vicinity. Perhaps he had 
not grasped the fact that she was going! Perhaps he 
had forgotten the hour! Perhaps—and somehow this 
was a supposition to which she clung instinctively for 


279 


The Parting 

comfort—perhaps he had decided that he could not face 
the parting. In any case, he was not there, and her heart 
was heavy as they trotted out on to the moorland road. 
She felt she could have endured anything more easily 
than to be suffered to go without a sign. 

The sky was dark with clouds that drove rapidly but 
unendingly before a west wind. The chill of coming 
rain was in the air, and the great heads of the tors were 
wrapped in drifting mist-wreaths. The scent of the bogs 
came to Frances with a poignant sense of regret. 

“I shall be home-sick for this when I get away,” she 
said. 

“It does take hold of you, doesn’t it?” said Oliver. 

Homely words that almost brought the tears to her 
eyes! Yes, it did take hold of her. She was bound with 
a chain that she could never break. She could not speak 
in answer. Her heart was too full. 

She had said to Maggie that she expected to be in town 
for but a few days, but a strong conviction was upon her 
that her absence would be much longer than this. She 
even wondered if she would ever return. The future 
was as a blank wall before her which she was utterly 
powerless to penetrate. But she had regained her health, 
and she knew that courage would return as soon as the 
last of her farewells was spoken. 

So they trotted on over the moor with the clouds 
gathering thickly on every side. 

Rounding the curve of a hill, they came at length 
within sight of the spot where she and Roger had sat 
together on that summer morning that seemed so long 
ago, and she had first seen Roger’s master. Vivid as a 
picture actually before her eyes, came the memory of 
that day, of the solitary horseman riding in the blinding 
sunlight, of the brief incident that had been their first 


28 o 


Tetherstones 


introduction. She remembered her indignation—her 
sweeping condemnation of the man. But he had done 
worse things since, infinitely worse. Did she condemn 
him now? As if in answer, another memory smote her 
—the memory of this man bowed to the earth by a bur¬ 
den too great to be borne—the dumb agony of which she 
had been a witness—and his tears—his tears! 

Her own eyes suddenly swam in them. She turned 
her face away. She must not break down now. She 
must not. 

Some seconds passed before she could command her¬ 
self to look again. They were nearing the bend in the 
road by which she and Roger had sat. 

“Hullo!” said Oliver suddenly. 

She started. “What is it? Ah!” 

A great wave of feeling, tumultuous, overwhelming, 
surged through her and she could say no more. Arthur 
was waiting on his horse, motionless as a statue, at the 
very spot that meant so much to her. Roger was with 
him with pricked, expectant ears. 

Oliver gave a chuckle and checked the cob. “Some¬ 
how I thought—” he said. “Have I got to pull up?” 

She did not answer him, for Arthur with an imperi¬ 
ous wave of the hand did that for her. He walked his 
horse forward as Oliver reined into a standstill. 

“You can ride my animal back,” he said. “I will take 
Miss Thorold to the station.” 

“You haven’t too much time,” said Oliver. 

“Then get down and be quick about it!” said Arthur 
briefly. 

To Frances he said nothing, and she attempted no 
word of greeting, even when he mounted to the seat be¬ 
side her. 

A hasty farewell to Oliver, the starting forward of the 


28 i 


The Parting 

cob, a cheery bark from Roger scudding in front, and 
they were rounding the bend of the road and alone. 
Before them, the drifting clouds parted suddenly like 
a rent curtain, and a great shaft of light descended. 
They drove straight into the brightness; but as they 
reached it the clouds drew together again, and they were 
once more in gloom. The moor stretched all about them 
like a wilderness. 

Arthur spoke at last. “Why are you going?” 

His voice was quiet; it held no special thrill of inter¬ 
est. She even wondered as she made reply if he were 
greatly interested. 

“It is better for me to go,” she said. “I am going 
to take up work in earnest. I have had some encourage¬ 
ment. Several of my sketches have been bought.” 

“I have seen the one you gave to my mother,” he said. 
“It was good of you to part with it.” 

“I did it for her,” said Frances simply. 

He nodded. “Nothing could have pleased her more. 
You say you have founed a purchaser for the others. 
You are hoping to get commissioned work?” 

“I am hoping,” said Frances. 

“And if you succeed, that will bring you back?” he 
said. 

She hesitated. His tone told her so little. 

“It might,” she said at length. 

He drove on for some distance in silence. Then, with 
a restraint so evident that she could not fail to realize 
that he was putting strong force upon himself, he said, 
“I hope you will succeed. I hope you will make your 
fortune. It’s a difficult world, but there are always 
some lucky ones. You may be one of them. In any 
case, whether you are or not, may I give you one word 
of advice?” 


282 


Tetherstones 


“What is it?” she said. 

He answered her briefly, with a certain recklessness 
that somehow hurt her. “Forget you ever met me! It’s 
no good—no good! Don’t weight yourself with a bur¬ 
den that can only handicap you! If it’s your fate, as 
well as mine, to grind your bread from stones, you’ll 
need all your strength to do it. People like you and me 
can’t afford to waste any time over—dreams.” 

He cut the horse a savage flick over the ears with the 
last word and they went forward on a downward slant 
at a startling pace. 

Frances attempted no rejoinder of any sort. She 
understood him too well. He had warned her not to re¬ 
turn, at what cost to himself she would never know, 
though possibly it was for his own sake as well as for 
hers that he had done it. There was an insuperable bar¬ 
rier between them, and he was not a man with whom any 
compromise would be possible. There were in his na¬ 
ture fires which, it was evident, even he could not always 
keep under control. Perhaps he realized that he could 
not. But he had spoken, and she felt that he had spoken 
finally. It was not for her to question his decision. She 
could only go onward now through a wilderness of 
utter desolation. 

Not till they had reached the outskirts of Fordestown 
and the grey moors were left behind, did he speak again, 
and then it was to say in his customary, clipped style, 
“We’ll not make a tragedy of this. Life’s too short. It’s 
just good-bye and good luck! And that’s all. 

She forced herself to smile. “Except many, many 
thanks!” she said. 

He stopped her quickly. “No, not that! Never that! 
Do you mind if I don’t get down at the station? I don’t 
like to leave the horse.” 


The Parting 283 

“Of course not/’ she said. 

They finished the journey in silence. He did not so 
much as help her to descend. A porter came for her 
baggage, and at the last moment she stood on the path, 
looking up at him. 

“Good-bye!” she said. 

He looked down at her, his face like an iron mask. 
“Good-bye—and good luck! You haven’t any time to 
spare.” 

He did not see the hand she began to offer, and it fell 
instantly. He touched his cap with his whip and lifted 
the reins. In another moment he was driving swiftly 
out of the yard. 

She turned into the station with a curious sense of 
groping her way, and heard the porter’s cheery voice 
at her shoulder. “It’s all right, miss. You’ve got ten 
minutes to spare.” 

“Thank you,” said Frances, and drew a hard, deep 
breath. 

Ten minutes to spare! And then to take up the bur¬ 
den of life again! 





PART IV 


CHAPTER I 

THE LAND OF EXILE 

London and a cold grey pall of fog! Frances looked 
forth from the carriage-window and suppressed a shiver. 
The grim ugliness of the great buildings that bordered 
the line seemed to lay a clammy hand upon her. The 
sordid poverty of the streets was as a knell sounding in 
her heart. Somehow it seemed to her that there was a 
greater loneliness here than could be found in any soli¬ 
tude of the moors. It was like a gaunt spectre, menac¬ 
ing her. 

The autumn day was fading into twilight, and a dreary 
drizzle had begun to descend from the smoke-laden sky. 
She saw the gleam of it on the platforms as the train 
ran into the teeming terminus. And the spectre at her 
elbow drew closer. This was the land of exile. 

She shook herself free, summoning to her aid that 
practical spirit which had stood her in such good stead in 
the old days of her slavery. Was she weaker now than 
she had been then, she asked herself? But she did not 
stay to answer the question, for something within her 
uttered swift warning. She knew that there were weak 
joints in her armour of which she had never been aware 
before. 

In any case it was not the moment to examine them. 

285 


286 


Tetherstones 


The long journey was over, and she had reached her 
destination. The time for action had arrived. She had 
made her plans, and it now remained for her to carry 
them out. With the money that Rotherby had sent for 
her sketches, she had enough to provide for that night 
at a hotel, and in the morning she was determined to find 
a cheap lodging where she could remain pending the 
settlement of the business that had brought her thither. 
Beyond that, her plans were vague, but if the matter 
went favourably she hoped to leave London again im¬ 
mediately. To live somewhere in the country—any¬ 
where in the country—where she could breathe pure air 
and work; this was all she asked of Fate now. The reek 
of the town nauseated her; it filled her with an intoler¬ 
able sense of imprisonment. She had an almost unbear¬ 
able longing to turn and go back whence she had come. 
And then suddenly a voice spoke at her side, greeting 
her, and she looked round with a start. 

“Didn’t you expect me?” said Rotherby. 

He smiled his welcome in the glare and noise of the 
great station, and two utterly antagonistic sensations 
possessed Frances at the sight of him, a feeling of dread 
and a feeling that was almost gladness. Little as she 
had desired to see him, the unexpected appearance of a 
familiar face in all that host of strangers sent a quick 
thrill of relief through her. The spectre that haunted 
her drew a little away. 

She smiled back at him, and after a moment gave him 
her hand. “I never expected you. What made you 
come ?” 

He laughed with a hint of exultation. His hand-clasp 
was close and possessive. She drew her own away with 
a sudden, stabbing memory of that which had been 
denied her that morning. 


The Land of Exile 


287 


“You said you were coming,” he said. 

“Yes, but I never said the train.” 

He laughed again. “There was no need. Come along! 
Any luggage? I’ve got a car waiting.” 

“My things are all here,” she said. “But I am not 
going any further to-night. I am going to get a room 
at the station hotel. To-morrow I can find something 
cheaper.” 

“Splendid!” he said lightly. “I’ll come and see you 
safely installed, may I?” 

She could not refuse, but she made her acceptance of 
his escort as business-like as possible. Not for worlds 
would she have had him know that any company just 
then was preferable to that of the spectre of her desola¬ 
tion that stalked so close behind. 

They went into the hotel, and she booked a room for 
the night, Rotherby standing by her side, amused, not, 
it seemed, greatly interested, until the business was ac¬ 
complished. 

Then, as she turned, he became at once alert and 
ready. She thought the cynical lines were more deeply 
marked than ever about his mouth and eyes, but his 
smile was wholly friendly. 

“Look here!” he said. “You must dine with me and 
we’ll do a theatre to-night. You’re looking like the 
maiden all forlorn, though I’m relieved to see you’ve left 
the cow behind! I’ll be round about seven. Will that 
do?” 

She hesitated. “Do you know I think I would rather 
have a quiet talk with you somewhere?” she said, with 
something of an effort. “I want to hear all there is to 
hear—about my work.” 

“Oh, there’s plenty of time,” he said. “As a matter 
of fact, the dealer chap isn’t in town at the moment. I 


288 


Tetherstones 


heard on the ’phone this morning. He’ll soon be back 
though, so you needn’t be anxious.” 

The news chilled her. “I had hoped to see him to¬ 
morrow,” she said. 

“He’ll soon be back,” said Rotherby again, with 
careless confidence. “Now what about this theatre? 
You’ll come? It’ll pass the time away.” 

It was in her mind to refuse. She would have pre¬ 
ferred to refuse. But in the end she accepted. Perhaps 
it was the dread of a long evening of solitary speculation 
and its attendant misgivings that actuated her. Per¬ 
haps his insistence weighed with her; or perhaps like a 
child she was overwhelmed by the sheer loneliness of her 
position. Whatever the motive, she yielded, and having 
yielded, she thrust all regrets away. It was as though 
after her long journey she had entered another world, 
and she determined almost fiercely to take the advice that 
had been offered her that morning and fling all handi¬ 
caps aside. He had said it was no good. He had told 
her not to return. Then she would go forward on this 
new path and stifle the pain at her heart. It might be 
that in time she would forget. O God, if she could but 
forget! 

She parted from Rotherby in the vestibule of the 
hotel and went up to her room. They were to meet 
again in little more than an hour, and she spent the time 
in a feverish effort to banish thought and to banish also 
that appearance of forlornness of which he had jestingly 
spoken. 

She was very tired, but she would not own it, and 
when she met him again she had captured that reserve of 
strength which dwells at the back of jaded nerves, and 
an almost reckless charm was hers. 

He gave her flowers, carnations and lilies, and she 


The Land of Exile 


289 


pinned them at her breast, revelling in their sweetness, 
exotic though she knew them to be. He took her to 
a restaurant, and the feeling of unreality followed her 
thither, throwing a strange glamour over all things. 
He did not again taunt her with being forlorn; for she 
held herself like a queen, and not even the simplicity of 
her attire could make her insignificant. 

“Gad!” he said to her once. “How wonderful you 
are!” 

And she uttered a little laugh that surprised herself. 
“It is all make-believe,” she said. 

He did not ask her to explain, but his eyes followed 
her perpetually with a kindling flame which mounted 
steadily higher, and when they left the table his hand 
closed for a moment upon her arm. 

She shook it off with a laugh and a shrug. “Every 
game has its rules,” she said. 

He laughed also, answering her mood. “Every 
woman makes her own,” he said. 

They went out into the gleaming streets and entered 
the waiting car. The unaccustomed luxury was like a 
dream to Frances. It was no longer an effort to put 
the past away from her. It had sunk of itself into the 
far dim distance. Very curiously the only memory 
that remained active in her mind was that of the purple 
flower that bloomed upon the coping of the cloisters in 
the Bishop’s garden. The vision of that was fantasti¬ 
cally vivid, as it had been on that day of her first talk 
with Montague Rotherby. 

The pain at her heart had wholly ceased, and she won¬ 
dered a little, barely realizing that she had stilled it 
temporarily with this anaesthetic of unreality. But a 
sub-conscious dread of its return made her steep herself 
more and more deeply in its oblivion. After all, to 


290 


Tetherstones 


whom did it matter except herself? This man with his 
cynical eyes was too experienced a player to be made a 
loser in one night. And she had so little left to lose. 

She sat in a box with him at the theatre, and though 
she quickly absorbed herself in the play, she was aware 
of his undivided attention from the beginning. 

It even exasperated her at last, so that she turned 
to him after the first act with a movement of impatience. 
“Does it interest you so little,” she said, “that you can’t 
even be bothered to glance at the stage?” 

“I have seen it already three times,” he made answer, 
“and I am more interested at the present moment in 
watching the effect it has upon you.” 

She uttered a laugh, but the words gave her an odd 
feeling of shock. The play was a fashionable one, but 
though it compelled her deepest interest, it held moments 
of disgust for her as well. 

“I should never want to see this more than once,” she 
said at the end of the second act. 

Whereat he laughed. “Your education has been neg¬ 
lected,” he said. “We all think like this now-a-days. 
The puritanical atmosphere of Tetherstones has spoilt 
your taste.” 

She was silent. Somehow the very word sent a pang 
to her heart. 

He leaned slightly towards her, looking at her. “Tell 
me about your sojourn at Tetherstones!” he said. 
“Were the farm people decent to you? Were you happy 
there ?” 

There was a slighting note in his voice that she found 
intolerable. She turned deliberately and met his look. 

“You know the Dermots,” she said. “You know 
quite well that they are not just—farm-people. Why 
should you conceal the fact?” 


The Land of Exile 


291 


He made a careless gesture. “I know that one of 
them shot me in mistake for a rabbit that night I waited 
for you,” he said. “I was never more scared in my life. 
That was the son, I presume? Did he ever mention 
that episode to you?” 

“Never,” she said. 

“No? Perhaps he wasn’t very proud of it. Perhaps 
he realized that the rabbit fallacy wouldn’t carry him 
very far in a court of law. I fancy he imagined that I 
was poaching on his preserves.” Rotherby spoke with 
a sarcastic drawl. “Very unreasonable of him, what?” 

She felt the burning colour rise in her face under his 
eyes, and she averted her own. “Not being in his con¬ 
fidence, I really can hardly give an opinion,” she said. 

“Oh, you’re not in his confidence?” said Rotherby. 
“Somehow I didn’t think you were, or you would hardly 
be so ready to take up the cudgels in his defence. He’s 
a curious fellow. I knew him years ago. He had 
brains as a young man, then somehow he got touched 
in the upper story and got condemned to the simple life. 
That was how he came to take up farming. An awful 
blow to the old man, I believe! I heard he was never 
the same again afterwards. That is about as far as my 
information takes me. I must admit that from a per¬ 
sonal point of view I am not vastly interested in the 
family. Did you find them interesting?” 

“They were kinder to me than I can possibly say,” 
Frances said. 

The careless information he had given her was like an 
obnoxious draught that she had been compelled to swal¬ 
low. But somehow, in spite of herself, she had assimi¬ 
lated it. It explained so much which before had been 
inexplicable. She remembered how she had more than 
once asked herself if the lonely gladiator on that Devon 


29 2 


Tetherstones 


moor were always wholly responsible for his actions. 
And was this why he had told her only that morning 
that it was no good—no good—that her love was nought 
but a handicap to be overcome and cast aside? 

Again she was conscious of the pain she had stifled 
waking within her. Again she felt the chill presence of 
the haunting spectre. Then Rotherby’s voice came to 
her again, and she turned almost with relief. 

“They were decent to you, were they?” he said. “I 
presume that was why you went back to them from 
Fordestown?” 

She thrust her pain away out of sight of his mocking 
eyes. “No,” she said quietly. “I went back to be with 
the little girl before she died. She wanted me.” 

He gave a slight start. “What? The blind child 
that used to run about the lane? Is she dead? What 
from ?” 

“She was very fragile,” Frances said, and instinctively 
she spoke with reverence. “She had a fall which caused 
an abscess at the base of the brain, affecting the spine. 
The doctor had always known it might happen at any 
time. She didn’t suffer—dear little soul.” 

“A tragic family!” commented Rotherby, and dropped 
into silence. 

He leaned back in his chair with his face in shadow, 
and for a space she felt that his attention was no longer 
focussed upon her. 

It gave her a certain sense of relief, for her thoughts 
would turn back to those few cynical words of his and 
she needed time to recover from the shock of them. 
Was it true? Was it true? Was this the key to the 
riddle that had so often baffled her? Was it for this 
that she had seen him writhing in agony of soul? 

The curtain went up, and she jerked herself back to 


The Land of Exile 


293 


her surroundings. She tried to immerse herself anew 
in the play, but her interest was gone. The glamour had 
faded, and she knew that she was terribly, overwhelm¬ 
ingly tired. A desire for solitude came upon her and 
with it, inseparable from it, an intolerable sense of exile, 
a longing that was almost anguish for the peace of the 
open moors, for the scent of the bog-myrtle, and the rain. 
. . . She closed her eyes, and drew her memories about 
her like a mantle. . . . 


CHAPTER II 

THE NIGHTMARE 

Someone was speaking to her. A hand touched her. 
She looked up with a start. 

Rotherby was leaning over her. His eyes met hers 
closely, lingeringly, with a caress in them which her 
tiredness barely comprehended. 

“How tired you are!” he said. “Shall I take you 
home?” 

Home! For a few moments her weary brain clung 
piteously about the word. Then the pressure of his 
hand brought swift awakening. She sat up with a jerk. 

“Oh, is it over? Yes, I am very tired. Forgive me! 
Let us go!” 

His hand still held her. He slipped it under her elbow, 
helping her to rise. 

She got up quickly, and freed herself. He put her 
loak about her in silence. They passed out of the box 
into the crowd that filled the corridor. 

“It’s pouring with rain,” said Rotherby, as they 
emerged into the vestibule. “Wait while I get the car!” 

He left her, and she took her stand at a corner of the 
steps, idly watching the press of people that thronged 
past her on to the pavement. Her sleep had left her 
slightly dazed, physically cold. The thought of the dear 
Devon she had left only that morning had sunk very 
294 


295 


The Nightmare 

far below the surface of her consciousness. It was as 
if years as well as distance separated her from it, and 
all she knew now was the ache of weariness and a cer¬ 
tain dull disgust with everything about her. A man on 
the pavement below her, wearing an ulster with a cap 
drawn down over his eyes, evidently waiting for a con¬ 
veyance, caught her passing attention because the set 
of his shoulders was somewhat reminiscent to her of the 
lonely horseman who had awaited her coming on the 
moor, but she was too apathetic to bestow more than a 
cursory glance upon any, and she shrank at the moment 
with something like panic from all things that might 
pain her. She was too tired to endure any more that 
night. 

Out of the press of hurrying people Rotherby de¬ 
tached himself and came to her. “It’s all right. Take 
my arm! The car is just here.” 

She obeyed him, for the throng was great, and her 
only desire to escape the vortex of humanity and find 
the rest she so sorely needed. He piloted her through 
the crowd. For a few seconds she felt the rain beating 
upon her uncovered head, and then she was sunk upon 
the cushions in the darkness of the car with Rotherby 
beside her, and the glittering streets slipping past with 
kaleidoscopic rapidity. 

The slashing of the rain upon the window-panes pene¬ 
trated her consciousness. “What a wet night!” she 
murmured. 

“Yes, fiendish,” said Rotherby. “But I’ll soon have 
you out of it. You’re dead beat, aren’t you?” 

“Very, very tired,” she answered, and dropped back 
into silence. 

The car slid on through the night. They turned out 
of the glaring streets, and in the dimness Frances 


296 


Tetherstones 


closed ner eyes again. She did not want to talk; and 
Rotherby’s mood seemed to coincide with hers, for he 
sat in utter silence by her side. 

She was hardly aware that the car had stopped when 
suddenly he spoke. “You’ll come in here for a few 
minutes? I’ll tell the man to wait.” 

She roused herself. “In where?” 

He was opening the door. “It’s a half-way house 
where you can get some supper. I have ordered it 
specially for you.” 

“Supper!” She echoed the word, slightly startled. 
“Oh, really I don’t want any. I would rather go straight 
back.” 

He was already out of the car. He stood in the door¬ 
way, laughing. “Please don’t keep me here in the rain 
to argue! Let’s do it inside! I can’t let you go supper¬ 
less to bed. It’s against my principles.” 

He took her hand with the words, and his own had 
an imperative touch to which she yielded almost before 
she realized it. 

“I really don’t want anything,” she protested, but she 
was getting out of the car as she spoke. “I never thought 
of such a thing.” 

“Nonsense!” said Rotherby. “Then it’s a good thing 
I’m here to think for you. I’ve got something rather 
interesting to tell you too. I’ve been saving it up all the 
evening. Confound this rain! Let’s get into shelter!” 

He spoke a word to the man, and then took her arm 
and led her swiftly up some steps to a lighted portico. 
They were actually inside before Frances found her 
breath to speak again. “What is this place?” 

“It’s a hotel of sorts,” he answered lightly. “I hope 
it meets with your approval. It’s somewhat after the 
French style. Come up in the lift!” 


297 


The Nightmare 

She went with him, still possessed by that feeling of 
unreality which had held her tired senses in thrall 
throughout the evening. The flowers at her breast were 
crushed and faded, but the scent of them had all the 
sweetness of a dream. Certain words floated through 
her memory—had she heard them only that morning ? 
“People like you and me can’t afford to waste any time 
over—dreams.” Ah well, the night would soon be gone, 
and she would wake in the morning to the old grim 
struggle. But till then—like the memory of the purple 
flower upon the wall in the days of her slavery—she 
would hold to her dream. 

She passed out of the lift with Rotherby, and he un¬ 
locked a door that led into a tiny hall. 

“Take off your cloak!” he said; then, as she fumbled, 
unfastened it himself and slipped it from her shoulders. 

She felt his eyes upon her again, and was stabbed, as 
a dreamer is sometimes stabbed, by a curious feeling of 
insecurity. Then he had turned away, and was taking 
off his own hat and coat. 

He closed the door by which they had entered and 
she heard the snap of a patent lock. “We don’t want 
anyone else in,” he said. 

She paused. “But isn’t it public? I thought you said 
it was a hotel.” 

He opened another door, and switched on a light that 
showed her a luxurious red-curtained apartment, with 
a polished table spread with refreshments of all kinds, 
and an electric stove that burned with a hot glow before 
a deep settee. 

“This isn’t public,” he said. “It belongs to me.” 

“Belongs to you!” She looked at him with eyes that 
were beginning to see that which her numbed brain till 
then had failed to grasp. “What do you mean?” 


298 


Tetherstones 


He made an airy gesture. “I mean that I have 
paid for it, that's all. See what a disappointment you 
would have given me if you had refused to come in to 
supper!” 

She stood staring at him. “I—don’t understand. 
You said—you did say—it was a public place?” 

He smiled his scoffing smile. ‘Hid I? I don’t seem 
to remember it. It doesn’t matter, does it? Sit down 
and have something! I prepared this as a little surprise, 
my Circe. You’re not vexed?” 

“Vexed!” she said, and paused, considering. “But— 
it’s so extraordinary. I never dreamed-” 

“No?” he said. “Well, you’ve been dreaming hard 
enough all the evening anyway. Come, sit down! Sit 
down and let’s enjoy ourselves! There’s no law against 
that, is there? Let’s see if I can open this champagne!” 

He proceeded to open it, and she watched him pour 
it foaming into two glasses on the table. The feeling 
that she had in some fashion been tricked was gaining 
ground with her, and yet in his careless demeanour she 
could detect no reason for alarm. He so evidently re¬ 
garded the whole affair as a joke. 

He turned round to her suddenly. “I say, don’t look 
so shocked! There really is no need. You can always 
marry me afterwards, you know, if you feel so disposed. 
In fact, I think you are practically committed to that, so 
let’s make the best of it!” 

“What do you mean?” she said. 

He lifted his brows cynically. “That’s what I have 
brought you here to explain. But never mind that now! 
Drink some of this stuff! You’ll find it quite good.” 

He motioned her to the table, but she held back. If 
she had dreamed all the evening, she was awake now, 
most suddenly and terribly awake. Her brain felt 



299 


The Nightmare 

strangely clear, as if it had been focussed upon one thing 
only till it had crystallized to an amazing penetration. 
The vision upon which she had gazed uncomprehendingly 
for so long had resolved itself into a thing of horror 
which filled the whole of her consciousness. 

She saw herself helpless as a prisoner chained to a 
rock, but superbly she gathered her strength to meet the 
situation. She faced him like a queen. 

“You have made a mistake,” she said. “Let me go!” 

He straightened himself sharply. She saw an ugly 
look cross his face—the look of a man who is debating 
at which point to drive his weapon home. Then again, 
carelessly, he laughed. 

“Do let’s have supper first!” he said. “We can talk 
afterwards for any length of time. I am sure you will 
find that sound advice. A good meal is always a help.” 

She stood motionless, her eyes unwaveringly upon him. 
“Let me go!” she said again. 

He came to her then, and though the smile was still 
upon his face, she knew that, like herself, he was braced 
for battle. 

“Why this tragic attitude?” he said. “And to what 
end? Don’t spoil the occasion, my Circe! We are going 
to enjoy ourselves to-night.” 

She flung down the gauntlet with a supreme disregard 
of consequences. “You hound!” she said. 

He shrugged his shoulders. “I like you for that. 
Yes, I am a hound, but I don’t appreciate an easy prey. 
I’ll conquer you now I’ve got you. But I’m in no 
hurry. Sit down and let’s talk it over!” 

Somehow that weakened her more than any violence. 
His utter assurance, his easy acceptance of her contempt, 
his almost philosophical attitude in the matter, all made 
her realize the hopelessness of her position. He had 


300 


Tetherstones 


deliberately trapped her, and he was not ashamed that 
she should know it. She stood before him speechless. 

“That’s better,” he said. “You’re getting a grasp of 
the situation, bringing that business-like mind of yours 
to bear upon it. Now listen to me! I love you. I can’t 
tell you why, but I do. I’ve always wanted you, and I 
made up my mind a long while ago that I would have 
you. We began well, and then you broke away. But 
you won’t break away this time. You belong to me, and 
I am going to enforce my claim. Is that quite clear?” 

“You have no claim,” she said through white lips. 

“That is merely your point of view,” he rejoined, “and 
I do not share it. You gave yourself to me, remember, 
and I never gave you any cause to regret your action. 
If you had behaved reasonably, we should have been 
married by this time, and all your troubles would have 
been at an end. As it is,—” He paused. 

“Well?” she said. 

She saw his face harden. “As it is,” he said, “you 
have tried my patience to the utmost limit, till I have 
come to the pitch when I will stand no more trifling. 
Do you understand? To-night I am your master. To¬ 
night—for the last time—I ask you, will you marry me? 
Think well before you decide! To-morrow—possibly— 
you may be not only willing, but anxious, but,” he 
shrugged his shoulders again—“I may have other plans 
by that time.” 

“Ah!” she said, and put a hand to her head. 

The floor had begun to sway under her feet. His face, 
with its cruel, set smile, had receded into distance. She 
was cold from head to foot, with an icy coldness, and 
she thought her heart had ceased to beat. She felt her¬ 
self totter. 

And then there came the grasp of his hand, holding 


301 


The Nightmare 

her back as it seemed on the very edge of the abyss. 
And instinctively she clung to the support he offered, 
with gasping incoherent entreaty. 

“Oh, hold me up! Save me! Don’t let me fall!” 

“Sit down!” he said. “Here is a chair! Now drink! 
It’s all right. You’ll be better in a minute.” 

She felt the rim of a glass against her chattering teeth, 
and she drank with her head against his arm. 

The wine was like fire in her veins; the awful numb¬ 
ness passed. 

“Better?” said Rotherby. “Come, this is rather a 
terrible fuss to make, isn’t it? Drink a little more!” 

She drank again, and then, as he released her, bent 
forward over the table, hiding her face. A great shiver 
went through her and passed. She sat bowed and silent. 

After a few seconds he spoke again, his tone quite 
friendly, but with that hint of mastery which made her 
realize how completely she was at his mercy. 

“Sit up and have some supper! You will feel much 
better for it. Afterwards we will sit by the fire and 
talk.” 

She raised herself slowly, propping her chin on her 
hands. She spoke, haltingly, with difficulty, almost as if 
it were in a foreign language. 

“If I give my promise—to—to—to—marry—you, will 
you—let me—go?” 

“To-night?” he said. 

“Yes, to-night.” She did not look at him; she was 
staring before her at a picture on the opposite wall—a 
picture of heather-clad moors and running streams—but 
with eyes that saw not. 

There was a brief pause, then very suddenly the man 
behind her moved. He bent and took her head between 
his hands, compelling her to face him. 


302 


Tetherstones 


“Why should I do that?” he said. 

She met his look, though an irrepressible shudder went 
through her at his touch. “Because,” she said, in the 
same slow, uncertain way, “you are a man—and I—am a 
woman. I am at your mercy—now, but I shall not 
always be. If you want to—to—hold me by any means 
—except force—then—you will be merciful. No! Lis¬ 
ten 1 I am at your mercy. I know it. I own it. But— 
you are not all beast. If you will let me go, I will 
promise to marry you—as soon as you wish. If you 
will not let me go, you will have your way to-night. But 
after to-night—after to-night-” 

“Well?” he said, awed in spite of himself by her voice, 
her words, her look, yet half-mocking still. “After to¬ 
night?” 

“After to-night,” she said, and drew herself from his 
hold, facing him with a gesture of freedom that was 
even regal, “you will never see me again, because I 
swear to you—before God—that I shall be dead.” 

He blenched a little, but in a moment recovered him- 
selved. “Pshaw! Words are easy—especially with 
women. That threat doesn't move me.” 

“No.” She got up from her chair with a strange calm¬ 
ness. “It may not—yet. But it will—it will. If you 
were all beast, you might not care. But you are a man 
at heart, and so you will never forget it. And you will 
care—terribly— afterwar ds.' ’ 

She turned from him with the words, walked to the 
settee before the stove, and sat down, holding her hands 
to the warmth, ignoring his presence utterly. 

He did not follow her. There was that about her 
that made it impossible just then. He had not thought that 
she had the strength so to dominate the situation. It 
had been completely in his own hands, but somehow it had 



303 


The Nightmare 

passed out of his control Wherefore? The sight of 
her weakness had made the conquest seem so easy that 
he had almost despised her for it. And now ? 

He turned sullenly from her, took up a glass and drank. 

After many seconds he spoke. “The last time I saw 
you, you gave me to understand that it was only your 
pride that kept you from marrying me. That is not the 
reason you want to back out now” 

“I gave you my reason then,” she made answer, with¬ 
out turning. “I did not love you.” 

“You loved me once,” he rejoined, “before you threw 
me over.” 

She uttered a short, hard sigh. “I hadn't even begun 
to know the meaning of the word.” 

He flung round savagely. “There’s someone else in 
the field. I suspected it before. Who is it? That maniac 
at Tetherstones ?” 

She leaned forward a little further to the glow. "It 
doesn’t really matter,” she said “Even if it were so, 
it wouldn’t really count, would it ?” 

“It would not,” he rejoined curtly. 

“So why discuss it?” said Frances. 

Her weariness sounded again in her voice, but there 
was no weakness with it, rather a species of solitary 
majesty upon which he could not intrude. Yet, baffled, 
he still sought to penetrate her defences. 

“You loved me once,” he repeated doggedly. £r What 
did I ever do to forfeit your love?” 

She turned suddenly as she sat, and faced him, pale, 
with burning eyes of accusation. 

“I will tell you what you did You desecrated my 
love. You killed it at birth. You treated me then—as 
you are treating me now—dishonourably. You gave me 
stones for bread, and you are doing it still. I think 


304 


Tetherstones 


you are incapable of anything else. Love—real love— 
is out of your reach!” 

The fire of her words scorched him; he drew back. 
“Gad!” he said. “If you’d lived in the old days, you’d 
have been burnt as a witch.” 

“There are worse fates than that,” she answered very 
bitterly. 

“There are!” he returned with a flash of anger. “And 
hotter hells! Well, you’ve made your conditions. I 
accept them. You are free to go.” 

He flung the words with a force and suddenness that 
struck her like a blow. She sat for a few moments, star¬ 
ing at him. Then, with an effort, she rose. 

“Do you mean that?” 

He came close to her. His face was drawn. Some¬ 
how she felt as though she were looking at an animal 
through the iron bars of a cage. 

He spoke, between his teeth. “Yes, I mean it. I 
will let you go—just to show you that—-as you kindly 
remarked just now—I am not—all—beast. But—I hold 
you to your promise. Is that understood? You will 
marry me.” 

She lifted her head with a certain pride. “I have said 
it,” she said, and turned from him. 

He thrust out a hand and grasped her shoulder. “You 
will say it again!” he said. 

She stopped. That grip of his sent panic to her heart, 
but she stilled it with a desperate sense of expediency. 
Yet, for the moment she could not speak, so terrible was 
the strain, and in that moment, as she stood summoning 
her strength, there came the sound of an electric bell 
cleaving the dreadful silence so suddenly that she cried 
out and almost fell. 

“Damnation!” Rotherby said. “See here! I shall 


The Nightmare 305 

have to go to the door. You don’t want to be seen here. 
You’d better go into the other room.” 

He indicated a door at the further end of the one in 
which they stood, and she turned towards it instinct¬ 
ively. 

He went with her, and opened it, switching on a light. 
She glanced within, and drew back. 

“Go in!” he urged. “I can’t help it. It’s only for a 
few seconds. I won’t let anyone in. Quick! It’s the 
only way.” 

She turned to him like a hunted creature, wildly be¬ 
seeching quarter. “You will let me go afterwards? 
You promise it? You swear it?” 

“Of course I will let you go,” he said. “There goes 
that damn’ bell again. You’ll be all right here, and I 
won’t keep you long.” 

He almost pushed her into the room, and shut the 
door upon her. The bell was pealing imperatively. 
She sank into a chair at the foot of the bed, and won¬ 
dered if this nightmare would ever pass. 


CHAPTER III 


THE AWAKENING 

The door was shut, but there came to her the sound 
of voices in the distance, and she listened intently, hold¬ 
ing her breath. At any moment he might return, at any 
moment the dread struggle might be resumed. He had 
given her his word, but she did not trust him. She 
never had trusted him; and the memory of his grip 
upon her shoulder gave her small cause for confidence 
now. She glanced around her for a possible means of 
escape, but the only other door in the room led into the 
little hall in which even now Rotherby was parleying 
with his unwelcome visitor. The impulse came to her 
to brave all risk of observation and walk straight out 
while he was thus occupied, but a more wary instinct 
bade her pause. If the visitor were an old friend, he 
might enter uninvited, and if that happened the outer 
door would be left unguarded, and she could make her 
escape unobserved, before Rotherby could get rid of 
him. This would be far the easier course, and would 
offer fewer difficulties later. So, with stretched nerves, 
prepared for immediate flight, she waited. 

The opportunity came even sooner than she expected. 
Very suddenly she heard the tramp of feet in the room 
she had just quitted, and in a second she was on her 
feet. 

But in that second she heard a voice raised abruptly 
306 


3»7 


The Awakening 

like the blare of an angry bull, and she stood rooted to 
the spot, listening, listening, listening, with her hands 
clasped tight upon her heart. 

Words reached her through the tumult of sound, 
words and the sounds of a fierce struggle. 

“Damn you, I’ll have an answer! I’ll kill you if you 
don’t speak. What? You infernal skunk, do you think 
I’d stick at killing you? There’s nothing I’d enjoy 
more.” 

There followed a dreadful series of sounds as of 
something being banged against the wall by which she 
stood, and then suddenly there came a terrific blow 
against the door itself. A cry followed the blow—a 
gurgling terrible cry, and it did for Frances what no¬ 
thing else could have done; it gave her strength to act 

She could have made her escape in that moment, 
but the bare thought was gone from her mind. She 
sprang to the door, and threw it open. Then she saw 
that which she had already beheld that evening, but 
with unseeing eyes—the big man in the ulster who had 
waited just below her in the rain at the theatre steps 
half-an-hour before. 

He was holding Rotherb}^ between his hands as he 
might have held a sack of meal, and banging his head 
against everything hard in the vicinity. Rotherby was 
struggling with gasping, broken oaths for freedom, but 
he was utterly outmatched. As Frances flung open the 
door he fell backwards at her feet, and the man who 
gripped him proceeded furiously to stand over him and 
bang his head upon the floor. 

“Oh, stop!” Frances cried in horror. “Oh, for God’s 
sake, stop!” 

He stopped. Her voice seemed to have an almost 
miraculous effect upon him. He stopped. But he knelt 


3°8 


Tetherstones 


upon Rotherby, holding him down, and his face, suf¬ 
fused with passion, was to her the most appalling sight 
she had ever beheld. 

There followed an awful silence, during which he 
remained quite motionless, bent over his enemy. 
Rotherby was bleeding profusely at the nose, but he was 
half-stunned and seemed unaware of it. His arms were 
flung wide, and his hands opened and shut convulsively, 
in a manner that made the onlooker shudder. 

How long that fearful silence lasted she never knew. 
It seemed to stretch out interminably into minutes so 
weighted with dread that each was like an hour. 

At last, when she could endure no longer, huskily, 
with tremendous effort, she spoke. “Do you want—to 
kill him?” 

He raised his head slowly and looked at her. His 
eyes were bloodshot and the veins of his temples visibly 
throbbing, but the rest of his face was ghastly white. 

He looked at her, and she felt a quick, piercing pain 
at her heart that made her catch her breath. 

“I have wanted to kill him for years,” he said. “Do 
you value his life? If not-” 

It was terrible, it was monstrous; but it was real. 
He was asking her—actually asking her, as a victorious 
gladiator in the arena—for permission to despatch his 
victim. And even as he spoke, she saw his right hand 
move towards the throat of the prostrate man. 

She cried out wildly at the sight, in an anguish of 
horror. “Arthur, no—no—no! That’s murder! 
Arthur,—stop!” 

“He is worse than a murderer,” Arthur said in the 
same fatalistic tone. 

“Ah, no!” she made gasping answer. “And you! 
And you!” 



3»9 


The Awakening 

“And—you!” he said, with terrible emphasis. 

She broke in upon him desperately, for the need was 
great. “He has done me no harm. Let him go! You 
must—you must let him go.” 

“Why?” he said. 

“Because I ask you—I beg you—because—because—” 
She halted, frantically searching for adequate words. 
“Oh, wait!” she besought him. “Wait!” 

His eyes regarded her immovably. “For your 
sake?” he said at last. 

She wrung her hands together. “Yes—yes!” 

He got slowly to his feet. “For your sake then!” 
he said. “Now tell me—what you are doing here? 
And why did you cry out just now when I rang the bell?” 

His manner was absolutely quiet, but there was that 
in his look that warned her that the danger was not past. 
She did not dare to tell him the truth. 

“I cried out,” she said, “because—I was startled. I 
hid in this room for the same reason.” 

“And—you came here—for what?” he said. 

She glanced away to the spread table, for she could 
not meet his eyes. “We had been to the theatre. I came 
in—for supper.” 

“And he has behaved towards you absolutely as a 
gentleman should?” he questioned, in the same level 
voice that made her think of a weapon poised for strik¬ 
ing. 

“Yes—oh, yes!” she answered. 

He was silent for a moment or two, and she knew 
that his look searched her unsparingly. Then: “I don’t 
believe you are telling me the truth,” he said. “But I 
shall soon know.” 

He turned abruptly to the man on the floor. “Get 
up!” he said. 


Tetherstones 


310 

Rotherby had drawn his hands over his face. He 
rolled on to his side as the curt command reached him, 
and in a few seconds, grabbing at a chair, he dragged 
himself to his feet. But his face was ashen and he could 
not stand. He dropped into the chair with a groan. 

Frances went to the washing-stand, squeezed out a 
sponge in cold water and brought it to him. He took it 
in a dazed fashion and mopped the blood from his nose 
and mouth. 

Arthur stood by, massive and motionless, his face set 
in iron lines. He was like an executioner, grim as 
doom, waiting for his victim. He made no comment 
when Frances brought towel and basin to Rotherby’s 
side and helped him. 

But at length, as Rotherby began to show signs of 
recovery, he waved her to one side. 

“Now, you! Let’s have your version! What are 
you and Miss Thorold doing here?” 

Rotherby looked at him through narrowed lids. His 
face was very evil as he made reply. “I chance to live 
here.” 

“I know that. And you’ll die here without any chance 
about it if you don’t choose to give me a straight answer 
to my questions. What did you bring her here for?” 

“What the devil is that to you?” said Rotherby sul¬ 
lenly. “You go to hell!” 

Though he was beaten so that he could hardly lift 
his head, he showed no fear, and for that Frances, who 
knew something of the temperament of the man who 
had beaten him, accorded him a certain admiration. 
To be punished as he had been punished, and yet to re¬ 
fuse submission proved a strength with which she had 
hardly credited him. 

At Arthur’s swift gesture of exasperation, she moved 


The Awakening 311 

forward, intervening. “Let me speak!” she said. “I 
will answer your questions.” 

She stood between the two men, and again, vesting 
her with a majesty which was not normally hers, there 
came to her aid the consciousness of standing for the 
right. Whatever the outcome, she recognized that the 
protection of Rotherby must somehow be accomplished. 
To save the one man from death and the other from 
committing a murder, she braced herself for the great¬ 
est battle of her life. 

Arthur’s look came back to her. He regarded her 
sombrely, as though he recognized in her a factor that 
must be dealt with. 

“You say he brought you here for supper,” he said. 
“Did he give you no reason for believing that he meant 
to keep you here all night ?” 

She faced him steadfastly. The man’s life hung in 
the balance. It rested with her—it rested with her. 

“I was on the point of leaving when you arrived,” 
she said. 

“Is that the truth?” he said. 

“It is the truth,” she answered quietly. 

“You honestly believe he meant to let you go?” 

<c Yes.” Her eyes looked straight into his with the 
words. She realized that the tension was slackening, 
but she dared not relax her own vigilance. The danger 
was not yet past. Not yet had she accomplished her end. 

“He has never given you any cause to distrust him?” 
Arthur said. 

She hesitated momentarily. “I am trusting him 
now,” she said finally. 

“Why?” He flung the word with a touch of fierce¬ 
ness.. “You are saying this to bluff me. It is not true.” 

“It is true,” she said resolutely, paused a second, then 


312 


Tetherstones 


very firmly made her position secure. “I am trusting him 
because—because I have promised to be his wife.” 

The declaration fell between them like a bombshell. 
She did not know how she uttered it, and having done 
so, there came a mist before her eyes which seemed to 
fog all her senses, making it impossible for her to gauge 
the result—to realize in any sense the devastation she 
had wrought. She thought she heard him draw the 
breath between his teeth as though he repressed some 
sign of suffering. But she was not sure even of this, 
so desperate for the moment was her own extremity. 

It could not have lasted for long, that wild tumult of 
emotion, but when it passed she was trembling from 
head to foot as though she had merged from some 
frightful conflict. She wanted to protest for very an¬ 
guish that she could not endure any more, she could not 
—she could not! But her voice was gone. She stood 
waiting, wondering how soon her strength would utterly 
fail. 

Arthur’s voice came to her at last, low, hoarse with 
restraint. “So that is why you came to town!” 

She could not answer him. There was no reproach 
in his tone, but the pain of it was more agonizing to her 
than any suffering of her own. As in a vision she saw 
him beaten and thrust aside—the mighty gladiator to 
whom, for some mysterious reason, victory was eter¬ 
nally denied. Her whole soul cried out against the fate 
that dogged him, but she stifled the cry. She could not 
—dared not—give it utterance. 

She yet stood between him and his victim, and she 
must continue to stand. She clung to that thought be¬ 
fore all else. To save him from himself—it was all 
that counted with her just then. 

He spoke again at length, and in his voice was a sub- 


The Awakening 313 

tie difference that told her the end was within sight— 
the battle almost won. 

“I am beginning to understand,” he said. “I thought 
—somehow I thought—I had misjudged you—that night 
at Tether stones—you remember? Well, I know better 
now. I shall never make that mistake again. If he 
marries you, no doubt you will consider yourself lucky. 
But—just in case you don’t know—I had better warn 
you that he doesn’t stick at letting a woman down if it 
suits his purpose.” 

His voice grew harder, colder; it had a steely edge. 
“You may have heard of a sister of mine who died 
some years ago—Nan? He ruined her deliberately, in¬ 
tentionally. He never meant to make good. She was 
young. She didn’t know the world as you know it. 
She—actually loved him. And she paid the penalty. 
We all paid to a certain extent. That is why—” his 
tone suddenly deepened,—“I have sworn to kill him if 
he ever comes my way again—as I would kill a poison¬ 
ous reptile. Perhaps it seems unreasonable to you. 
Your ideas are different. But—the fact remains.” 

He ceased to speak, and still she stood between them, 
past speech, almost past feeling, yet steadfast in her re¬ 
solve. The battle was nearly over—the end within sight. 

Again there fell a silence, and she counted the sec¬ 
onds, asking herself how long—how long? Some¬ 
where within her she seemed to hear the echo of the 
words that he had spoken on that terrible night at 
Tether stones. “I loved you—I—loved you!” And now 
as then she felt that the fires of hell were very near. 
But she would not faint this time. O God, she must 
not faint! 

He spoke again—for the last time—and there was a 
sound of dreadful laughter in his voice. 


314 


Tetherstones 


‘‘It seems I have come on a fool’s errand/’ he said. 
“I can only apologize for my intrusion, and withdraw. 
No doubt you know best how to play your own game. 
I only regret that I did not realize sooner what it was.” 

That was all. He turned from her with the words, 
and she knew that the awful battle was over. Because 
of her, he would let his enemy go free. 

But as she stood numbly listening to the heavy tread 
of his feet as he went away, she knew no sense of con¬ 
quest or even of relief. The battle was over, but she 
herself was wounded past all hope. And she thought 
her heart must die within her, so bitter was the pain. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE VICTORY 

He was gone. The clang of the outer door spoke of 
his departure. 

He was gone, and the dread struggle was past. 

She came to herself like a dazed mariner flung ashore 
by the breakers, hardly believing that the peril was over. 
A great weakness was upon her and she knew that she 
could not stand against it. Of Rotherby’s very exist¬ 
ence at the moment she was unaware. Mechanically, 
gropingly, she made her way to the settee before the 
stove and sank down upon it. She was shivering vio¬ 
lently. 

The warmth came about her, and she stretched out 
her hands to it, seeking its comfort, thankful for the 
physical relief of it, yet hardly conscious of her sur¬ 
roundings. 

“It is dead—it is dead!” she kept saying to herself 
over and over. “It is quite—quite dead!” 

But for a long time she could not bring herself to 
realize why she said it or what it was that was dead. 

At last by slow and painful degrees it began to dawn 
upon her that there was a meaning to the words. Some¬ 
thing was dead. Something had died by her hand in 
that very room. What was it? 

Now it came to her in all its immensity, crushing her 
down. She had slain his love. She had killed her own 
romance. From that night onwards he would never 

315 


316 


Tetherstones 


think of her again save with reviling and bitterness of 
soul. She had taken that which was holy and flung it 
in the dust. She had desecrated the perfect gift, had 
made a hideous travesty of that high vision which had 
been vouchsafed to her. More, she had dragged the 
man she loved down to the very gates of hell, and had 
made him know the tortures of the damned. 

The warmth was beginning to ease her exhausted 
body, but her spirit found no comfort. Almost she pre¬ 
ferred that numbness of all her faculties. For the 
misery that was taking its place was more than she could 
bear. 

She still sat with her hands outstretched, but hot 
tears were rolling down her face, unheeded, unchecked, 
the tears of a great despair. 

“It is dead,” she said to herself over and over in the 
desolation of her soul. “It is dead. It is dead.” 

There came a voice behind her—Rotherby’s voice, 
and she started slightly, remembering him. It was curi¬ 
ous how little he counted now. 

“Frances,” he said, and with her outer consciousness 
she noticed an odd embarrassment in his tone and faintly 
wondered. “I’ve made a pretty poor show of this. 
Don’t cry! You’re perfectly safe.” 

“Am I crying?” she said, and put a hand to her face. 

He came and sat beside her. “Listen!” he said. 
“I’ve been a damned cad. And you’re a topper. I never 
knew you had it in you—or any woman had for the 
matter of that. There’s nothing I won’t do for you 
after this. Understand?” 

“I don’t want you to do anything,” she said wearily. 

He made an odd sound as of some irony suppressed. 
“You’re nearly dead,” he said. “So am I. Come and 
have supper! And trust me—will you trust me?” 


317 


The Victory 

Something in his tone reached her. She turned 
slowly and looked at him. His face w^s very pale, and 
his eyes looked drawn and strained; but except for this 
she saw no traces about him of the recent struggle. He 
met her gaze with a faint smile. 

'‘I’ve had all the nonsense knocked out of me for 
to-night,” he said. “But I suppose I’m damned lucky 
to be here at all. That fellow has the strength of an 
ox. The back of my head is like a jelly, damn him I” 

“I thought he meant to kill you,” she said dully. 

“He did,” said Rotherby. “You saved my life.” 

“Did I?” Her look fell away from him. “It wasn’t 
for your sake,” she said, after a moment. “It was for 
his.” 

“I gathered that,” said Rotherby. “That’s what 
makes you so wonderful.” 

“I don’t feel wonderful,” she said. 

He leaned towards her. “Don’t cry!” he said again. 
“You are wonderful. And you’ve made me feel a cur 
of the very first magnitude. That’s something to ac¬ 
complish, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking of you.” 

“You’re worn out,” he said. “Have some food, and 
I’ll take you back. You’re going to trust me, aren’t 
you? I swear I won’t let you down after this. You’re 
not afraid of me?” 

“Oh no, I am not afraid of you,” she said. 

In a detached, impersonal fashion, out of the depths 
of her despair, she wondered how he could imagine 
that he or his actions had the slightest importance for 
her. Could anything in the world really matter after 
this cataclysm? He might have been a total stranger, 
ministering to her, so small was his significance now. 

But she was in a vague fashion grateful for his kind- 


Tetherstones 


318 

ness, and when he brought her food, she forced herself 
to eat lest he should think her unappreciative. It re¬ 
vived her also, lifting the awful weight of inertia from 
her senses, so that after a while she was capable of 
coherent thought again. 

“That’s better,” Rotherby said presently. “Look 
here! You won’t believe me, but I’m most damnably 
sorry for all this.” 

“I do believe you,” she said, with a wan smile. 

“Oh, I don’t mean the hammering,” he said. “I’m 
actually thinking of you for a change. I’ve been a rotter 
all my life, and I don’t count. But you—you’re straight. 
I always knew you were. And I’ve found out some¬ 
thing more about you to-night. I’ve found out why 
you turned me down.” 

He got up abruptly, and began to walk about the 
room. 

“I half-guessed it long ago. I know it now. You 
love this hairy-heeled chap who nearly killed me to¬ 
night. You needn’t bother to deny it. You love him 
and he loves, you. And yet—and yet—you let him be¬ 
lieve—that of you! Good God! There isn’t another 
woman on earth would have done it.” 

“I had to do it,” Frances said with simplicity. “He 
would have killed you.” 

“Yes, he would have killed me—and swung for it. 
You didn’t want him to swing. Listen!” He came 
suddenly to her and knelt by her side. “You told me 
a little while ago that I was not all beast, that I was 
a man at heart. And you’re right. I am—I am. 
Frances, I swear to you—I’ll never let you down after 
this.” 

The earnestness of his tone moved her somewhat. 
She put out a hand to him. “I know,” she said. 


319 


The Victory 

He gripped her hand fast. “You don’t know what a 
brute I am,” he said. “I’m going to tell you. That 
fellow—Arthur Dermot as he styles himself—is my 
cousin. His father is Dr. Rotherby’s brother. We 
were friends once, he and I—sort of brothers, you 
understand. He had a sister—a lot of sisters—one in 
particular—a lovely girl—Nan.” He paused. “Some¬ 
how you have always reminded me of Nan, so dainty, 
so queenly in your ways, so quick of sympathy—so full 
of charm. Well, I loved her—she loved me. It was a 
midsummer madness—one of those exquisite dreams 
that one revels in like a draught of wine, and then for¬ 
gets.” 

“That isn’t love,” said Frances. 

He lifted his shoulders. “Isn’t it? Well, perhaps 
you are right. I never wholly forgot. But we were 
young. She was only twenty. No one suspected us 
of falling in love until the thing was done. Then there 
was an outcry—first cousins—no marriage. We hadn’t 
even begun to think of marriage, but I swear—I swear 
—I never meant to let her down. If they had left us 
alone, the thing would probably have fizzled out, but 
the fuss somehow worked us up to fever pitch. We 
met—by stealth—at night. She was young and very 
ardent. I was a damned cad. I own it. But she—she 
was like a flame, and in the end—well, you know what 
happened in the end. We came to our senses very 
early one summer morning. She was scared, and when 
I tried to calm her she flew into a passion. I got angry 
too. We quarrelled and separated. That very day the 
old Bishop, my trustee he was then, sent for me and 
told me he had a mission for me to execute in Australia. 
It was a trumped-up job. I knew it at the time. But 
I was hot-headed, and there had been talk of foreign 


320 


Tetherstones 


travel before. I took it for granted that our dream had 
come to an end. I accepted and went.” 

“How could you?” Frances said. 

He raised his shoulders again. “I told you I was a 
brute. But at the time it seemed the only thing to do. 
The dream was over. One doesn’t sit over the cards 
in broad daylight.” 

The cynicism habitual to him sounded in the last 
words. She shrank a little and withdrew her hand. 

“Yes, I know,” he said. “You are a woman. You 
take the woman’s point of view. But I’m not defend¬ 
ing myself. I’m just telling you the plain truth. I 
didn’t know when I went about poor Nan’s trouble. I 
had a letter from her three months after, telling me. 
She wanted to run away, to come and join me. It was 
a wild, hysterical sort of letter. It had taken six weeks 
to reach me, and it seemed likely she had changed her 
mind by that time. In any case I was just starting for 
an expedition into the Blue Mountains. I put her letter 
on one side to answer, but somehow I never did answer 
it. I thought she had probably exaggerated the whole 
thing. So I hoped for the best and let it slide.” 

“How wicked!” Frances said. “How contemptible!” 

The condemnation in her voice was all the deeper 
for its quietness. She sat before him cold, impersonal 
as a judge, her eyes fixed straight before her. 

A curious shiver went through the man. He got up 
to cover it, and resumed his pacing of the room. 

“I was away for over two years,” he went on, speak¬ 
ing as one impelled. “I never heard from her during 
that time. I almost forgot her. Then I came home. 
I found they had left Oxford. Did I tell you old Dermot 
Rotherby had held a professorship there, and Arthur 
was reading for the Bar? No one seemed to know 


321 


The Victory 

where they were. Old Theodore, the Bishop, had been 
appointed to Burminster. I went to him, asked him 
for news. He said Dermot’s health had broken down, 
and they had taken a farm in the country. They had 
never been much to one another. He spoke very vaguely 
of them. It was Aunt Dorothea who let it out. She 
told me Nan had died mysteriously—that there had been 
a child—that they had changed their name in conse¬ 
quence—and then she got badly scared and begged me 
not to let the Bishop know she had told me, and not to 
dream of going near them as it was more than my life 
was worth. I must admit I didn’t feel drawn that way, 
since poor Nan was past help. So I decided to let sleep¬ 
ing dogs lie, and cleared out of the country again. I 
stayed away for some time, sometimes drifting back to 
London, but never for long. Then at last I got tired 
of wandering and came home. I went to Burminster, 
and met—you. You caught me then. You’ve held me 
ever since. And I could have won you—I could have 
won you—” He stopped abruptly. “What’s the good 
of talking? I’ve lost you now, haven’t I? You’ll never 
look at me again.” 

“Never,” Frances said. 

Her hands were clasped as she sat. There was no 
longer any agitation about her. She might have been 
a carven image, so still was she, so utterly aloof and 
removed from all emotion. 

He glanced at her once or twice as he walked, and 
finally came and stood before her. 

“I haven’t told you quite everything even now,” he 
said. “There’s one thing I’m almost afraid to tell you. 
Shall I go on—or shall I hold my peace ?” 

“Go on!” she answered in the same dead-level voice. 

“You think nothing matters now,” he said. “You 


322 Tetherstones 

think you won’t care. You’re wrong. You will care— 
horribly.” 

“I think I have got to know,” she said, “whatever it 
is.” 

“All right,” he said recklessly. “You shall know. 
After some damnable fate had taken you to Tether¬ 
stones, after they had tried to murder me and failed, 
after that night at Fordestown when you refused to 
come with me, the devil entered into me, and I made up 
my mind I’d get you—at any cost. And so I played you 
a trick. I lied to you.” He bent down, trying to read 
her impassive face. “Do you understand? I tricked 
you—to get you up here.” 

She did not flinch or give any sign of feeling. “Do 
you mean about my sketches?” she said. 

“Yes. That’s just what I do mean. I have got them 
all here. No one has seen them but myself.” 

A faint frown drew her forehead. “But you paid 
for them,” she said. 

“I know. That was part of my damned scheme to 
get you into my power. You were always so independ¬ 
ent. I thought when once you realized that you had 
been living on my money, it would break your spirit.” 

“How—odd!” she said. 

And that was all. No word of reproach or condem¬ 
nation; yet the man winced as if he had been struck in 
the face. 

“My God!” he said. “If you would only curse me! 
Any other woman would.” 

“But why?” she said. “The fault was mine. I al¬ 
ways knew—in my heart—that you were—that sort of 
man.” 

“My God!” he said again. “You haven’t much 
mercy.” 


323 


The Victory 

She looked up at him. “I am sorry for you,” she 
said. ‘‘But—I don't blame you. You were made that 
way.” 

He struck his fist into his hand. “Frances, I swear to 
you—I swear to you— No, what's the good of swear¬ 
ing? I’ll show you. Look here! We won’t talk any 
more to-night. We’re both dead beat. I’ll take you 
back to your hotel. And in a day or two—if you will 
trust me—I’ll show you that I am not—that sort of 
man. Will you trust me, Frances? Give me this one 
chance of making good? I’m a blackguard, I own it; 
but I can play the game if I try. Will you trust me?” 

There was a hint of desperation in his voice, and, be¬ 
cause she was a woman, that reached her where mere 
protestations had failed. 

She held out her hand to him mutely, and as he took 
it she rose to her feet, looking him straight in the eyes. 
But she did not utter one word. She had spoken her 
condemnation and there was nothing left to say. 

Out of her despair, tragically but fearlessly, she faced 
him. And to the man in his abasement there came a 
sense of greatness such as he had never before known. 

Not by strength and not by strategy, but by purity of 
heart, she had conquered the devil in his soul. 


CHAPTER V 


THE VISION 

London skies and ceaseless rain, and the roar and 
swish of London traffic over the streaming roads! The 
tramp of many hurrying feet, the echo of careless voices 
vaguely heard, and the grey, grim river flowing out to 
sea! How terrible it was! How inevitable! How— 
lonely! 

She stood—a slim dark, figure—in the recess of 
the bridge leaning against the stone balustrade while the 
crowds passed by unheeding, and looked down into 
the dark-flowing water. 

How long would it take, she wondered, how long a 
struggle in those dreadful depths before the soul rose 
free? And then—even then—would it be freedom, or 
slavery of another kind, a striving against yet more 
awful odds, a sinking into yet more fearful depths? 
Her tired mind wandered to and fro over the problem. 
So easy to die, if that were all! But after death—what 
then? Having shirked the one issue, could she possibly 
hope to be in any sense better equipped for that which 
lay beyond? Having failed hopelessly to prove herself 
in the one life, could there be any possibility of making 
a better bargain for herself in the next? Her brain re¬ 
coiled from the thought. No, deliverance did not lie 
that way. 

324 


The Vision 


325 


Perhaps it did not lie anywhere, she told herself 
drearily. Perhaps there was no deliverance. Like the 
prisoners of old, shackled to that stone of fate, perhaps 
it was her lot to wait until it descended upon her. She 
had sought so desperately for a way of escape, and now 
every channel was closed to her. Further seeking— 
further striving—were useless. God alone could help 
her now. 

She looked up at the grey sky and felt the cold rain 
beating down upon her. Who was it who had once 
said: “Ask and ye shall receive, seek and ye shall find, 
knock and it shall be opened unto you”? Strange that 
such words as those could ever be forgotten! They 
came upon her now almost as if they had been uttered 
aloud. And with them, very suddenly, came the mem¬ 
ory of her prayer from the Tetherstones on the night 
of her great need. “From all evil and mischief, from 
sin, from crafts and assaults of the devil, Good Lord 
deliver us!” And how wonderful—how God-sent—had 
been her deliverance! The thought of little Ruth shot 
across her mind like a ray of light. Again the childish 
fingers seemed to clasp her own, closely, confidingly, 
lovingly. It was like a message to her soul—the angel 
of her deliverance! 

It was then that the power to pray came to Frances, 
there on the open crowded bridge between the grey skies 
and the grey river with the grey stone to support her. 
She could not have said whence or how it came, but it 
possessed her for a space to the exclusion of all else. 
And she prayed—as she had prayed by little Ruth’s 
death-bed—with a fervour and a depth of faith that 
amazed herself. Not for deliverance, not for a way 
of escape, only for strength in her weakness—only for 
sustenance, lest the journey be too great for her! And 


326 


Tetherstones 


when she ceased to pray, when the great moment passed 
—all too quickly, as such moments always must—when 
she woke again to physical misery and physical exhaus¬ 
tion, to the dripping skies and the leaden world and the 
dank uncleanness of the atmosphere, though no sign 
of any sort came in answer, yet she knew that her 
prayer was heard. 

She turned and left the bridge, still with the feeling 
of that little hand in hers, and a sense of relief that 
was almost rejoicing in her heart. Though she had 
lost everything, though she trod the stones of the wil¬ 
derness and the way before her was dark and steep and 
wholly unfamiliar, yet her fear had gone. The burden 
was lifted. For she knew that she was not alone. She 
went back through the rain-soaked streets, and still it 
seemed to her that that angel-presence went with her, 
guiding her feet. She had come out to seek a cheap lodg¬ 
ing, but now that purpose had gone from her. She re¬ 
turned to the great station and the vast hotel as one led. 

She passed in under the echoing glass roof where the 
shrieking of trains mingled with the noise of the scurry¬ 
ing multitudes. Everyone was in a hurry, it seemed, 
except herself, and she—she moved without haste and 
without lingering to a destination unknown. 

She turned in to the hotel vestibule, leaving the noise 
and the seething crowds, conscious of a great quietness 
that came as it were to meet her and folded her round. 
It was late afternoon, and her intention had been to give 
up her room, but she had not done so, and she did rot 
now turn to the office. She went instead to a setter 
a corner and sat down there as one who waited. A 
people passed to and fro, but no one accosted her. The 
place was dim and restful. She took no interest in th . 
or they in her. 


The Vision 


327 


Somewhere in the distance a page-boy was calling 
a number in a raucous voice. No one responded to it, 
and she vaguely wished he would stop; for he intruded 
upon the peace of the atmosphere like a yapping dog 
heard in the silent hours of the night. Now he was 
drawing nearer and becoming more obtrusive. Why 
did not someone stop him? If he had a message why 
couldn’t someone take it and send him away? Or if 
he couldn’t find the person for whom it was intended, 
where was the use of continuing that untuneful yell? 

“Two — four — nine! Two — four — nine!” Now he 
had left the lounge and was coming down the corridor 
to the vestibule! The thing was beginning to get upon 
her nerves. She drew further back into the corner as 
he approached. Quite a small boy, with the sharp rat¬ 
like features of his type, and gleaming brass buttons all 
down his front that reflected little knobs of light from 
a distant lamp! His voice was stupendous, shattering 
the peace, piercing her brain with its insistence, pul¬ 
verizing the vision that had brought her thither. 

“Two — four — nine! Two — four — nine!” He came 
close to her, paused, yelled the number straight at her 
so that she shrank, and then passed on to the almost 
empty vestibule where he continued his intolerable cry 
without result. 

His voice began to pass into the distance, to merge 
into the vague sounds that penetrated from without. 
Now she heard it no longer, and she breathed a sigh of 
thankfulness, and tried to return to the state of quies¬ 
cent waiting which he had so rudely disturbed. But 
mg had happened. She realized it with almost 
a sens* of calamity. The little fingers no longer clasped 
hei 1, the feeling of peace had left her. The vision 
had fled. 


328 


Tetherstones 


She made a desperate attempt to call it back, t 
her mind to grasp afresh the power that had sc mgi 
cally inspired her. But it was gone. The oute iai k- 
ness came down upon her once more. The blackness of 
despair entered into her soul. 

She sat for a space in blank hopelessness. Then it 
was all a myth, that strength so wonderfully bestowed, 
the trick of an overwrought brain—no more! Her 
prayer had been in vain. She was alone and sinking— 
sinking! A sound of great waters suddenly filled her 
ears. She saw again the grim, dark river flowing to 
the sea—so deep, so cold, so terrible! She lifted her 
face, gasping, as though those awful waters were over¬ 
whelming her. Her heart had ceased to beat. It felt 
like a stone within her, and she was cold to the very 
soul of her. 

Ah, God, what was that? A cry in the distance—a 
voice that called! What was it? What was it? She 
grabbed her failing faculties to listen. It might be even 
yet the salvation for which she had prayed and waited. 
It might be—ah, what was it and why did it hold her 
so? 

Breathlessly she listened, and for those moments she 
was like a prisoner on the very brink of death, hearing 
afar off the arresting cry that meant—that might mean 
—a reprieve. Now it grew nearer, it grew louder, it filled 
the world,—the universe—like a trumpet that could not 
be ignored. Words came to her through the wild chaos 
of her mind—three short words flung like a challenge 
far and wide—now a demand, now a menace—so that 
all must surely stop to listen! 

“Two — four — nine! Two — four — nine!” That page 
with the fiery buttons was returning! 

Along the corridor he came, and she caught back a 


The Vision 


329 


burst of terrible laughter that rose from her stone-cold 
heart at the sight. A minute figure with a brazen voice 
that bawled trumpet-wise, and bearing a brass salver 
with a telegram upon it. Now he approached her again, 
and she marvelled at the noise he made. Surely he was 
made of brass, this messenger whom no one heeded! 

“Two — four — nine! Two — four — nine!” He came 
to her, he stopped again. He shouted his challenge full 
at her. Then he ceased. 

He thrust the salver towards her, and spoke in a 
husky, confidential undertone. “Ain’t that your num¬ 
ber, miss?” 

She stared at him, amazed rather by the unexpected 
cessation of the noise than by the words he spoke. 

He thrust the salver a little nearer. “Ain’t that your 
number?” he said again. “Two—four—nine! Thorold! 
Ain’t that your name ?” 

She put out a hand mechanically. “Is it? Can it be? 
Yes, my name is Thorold.” 

Her voice came mechanically too; it had a deadened 
sound 

The boy’s sharp eyes scanned her with pert curiosity. 
As she took the telegram, he pursed his lips to a whistle, 
but no sound issued from them. 

She read the message in a sort of suspended silence 
that was peculiarly intense. 

“I am in need of secretarial help if you care to re¬ 
sume your position here as a temporary measure. 
Please come to-night or wire. Rotherby. The Palace. 
Bur minster.” 

A voice out of the void! A forgotten voice, but none 
the less clear! She looked up as it were through thin- 


33 ® 


Tetherstones 


ning mists and saw the boy’s bright eyes watching her. 
Why was he interested, she wondered? What could it 
matter to him? 

“Any answer, miss?” he suggested helpfully, and now 
she saw a gleam in the little rat-keen eyes and under¬ 
stood. 

“No, none,” she said, “none. I shall answer it in 
person.” 

He looked pinched for a moment, and then he grinned 
cheerily, impudently, philosophically. 

“That’s right, miss,” he said. “Don’t you lose no 
more time about it! Time’s money to most of us.” 

And with that he turned to go, but sharply, on im¬ 
pulse, she stayed him. “Boy, wait!” 

He waited at once. “Yes, miss? Anything I can 
do for you?” 

“No, nothing,” she said, “nothing. You have already 
done—much more than you know.” She pushed a hand 
down into the pocket of her rain-coat and found a half¬ 
penny that had been there ever since the coat had been 
new. “I’ve carried this for luck,” she said, and managed 
to smile. “It’s all I can offer you. Will you have it?” 

He stared at her for a second, then his shrewd grin 
reappeared. “Not unless you’ll toss me for it,” he said. 
“There’d be no luck without.” 

She accepted the sporting suggestion. Strangely, in 
that moment, it appealed to her. She needed trivialities as 
never before. 

“You can toss if you like,” she said. 

He took the coin and spun it, caught it deftly, and 
looked at her. “Heads, miss?” he questioned. 

“Yes, heads,” she agreed. 

He slapped it forthwith on to the tray and handed it to 
her. “Heads it is—and I wish you good luck!” he said. 


The Vision 


33i 


She picked up her halfpenny, for there was a compelling 
look in his eye which warned her that she was expected 
to play the game. 

“Thank you,” she said, finding nothing else to say. 

He drew himself up with a comic assumption of the 
grand manner. His little beady eyes twinkled humorous 
appreciation of her action. 

“You’re welcome, miss,” he said ceremoniously, and 
turning, tramped away with his salver under his arm. 

He left her laughing in a fashion that eased the tension 
of her nerves and took from her that terrible hysterical 
feeling of being off her balance that had so nearly over¬ 
whelmed her. She returned the halfpenny to her pocket 
and sat motionless for a few seconds to recover. 

Yes, her vision had departed, but her prayer was an¬ 
swered. A way was opened before her, and, stony and 
difficult though it might be, she knew that the needed 
strength to take it would be given. Her heart was beat¬ 
ing again and alive with a great thankfulness. It was 
not the way she would have chosen, but what of that? 
It was not for her to choose. 

And so, as her normal powers returned to her, she did 
not stay to question. She rose to obey. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE INQUISITOR 

“I have been given to understand,” said the Bishop, 
“that circumstances have arisen which have made you 
not unwilling to return to me for a time.” 

“Yes, that is so,” Frances said, “if you care to make 
use of me.” 

She stood before him in the book-lined study where 
so many of her hours had been spent in bitter bondage 
of body and spirit. The table with its typewriter was 
in its accustomed position in the window, and beyond 
the window she caught a glimpse of the grey stone of 
the cloister-arch, no longer decked in purple but splashed 
with the crimson of autumn leaves. The morning sun 
shone warmly upon it. It was a glorious day. 

She had travelled down by a night-train, and not till 
the official hour of ten o’clock had the Bishop accorded 
her an interview. His austere countenance displayed 
no vestige of welcome even now, yet she had a curious 
conviction that he was not wholly displeased by her 
prompt reply to his invitation. His greeting of her, 
though cold, had been without acidity. 

“Pray sit down!” he said, indicating a chair. “I 
have a few questions to ask you before we proceed any 
further. I beg that you will reply to them as concisely 
as possible.” 

“I will do my best,” Frances said. 

She took the seat facing him, the morning-light un- 
332 


333 


The Inquisitor 

sparingly upon her, and she knew that he looked at her 
with a closer attention than he had ever before bestowed 
upon her, as she did so. 

“I will come to the point,” he said, in his curt, un¬ 
compromising way. “You realize of course that my 
message to you was not the result of chance, that I was 
actuated by a motive other than the mere desire to suit 
my own convenience?” 

“Yes, I guessed that,” she answered quietly. 

He nodded, and she thought that the ascetic lines of 
his face became a shade less grim as he proceeded. “I 
will not disguise from you the fact that as a secretary 
I have not yet found your equal, but that was not my 
reason for sending you that message. Now, Miss 
Thorold, kindly pay attention to what I am going to 
say, for time is short. I am due to conduct the service 
in the Cathedral in less than half-an-hour. I have a 
question to ask you primarily to which I must have a 
simple and unequivocal answer. When I discharged 
you some three months ago from my employment, I 
believed that an intrigue of an unworthy nature existed 
between my nephew and yourself. I ask you now—and 
you will answer me as before God—has there ever been 
any justification for that belief either before or since?” 

He spoke with great solemnity and emphasis. His 
eyes—those fanatical deep-set eyes—were fixed upon 
her with an intensity tl seemed to burn her. 

“You will answer me, he said again, “as before God.” 

And Frances answered with the simplicity of 

one to whom shame was unknown. “There has never 
been the smallest justification.” 

Something of tension went out of the Bishop’s atti¬ 
tude, but he kept his eyes u] on her with a scrutiny that 
never varied. “That bei , the case,” he said, “on the 


334 


Tetherstones 


assumption that you have nothing to hide, I am going 
to ask you to give me a brief—really a brief account, 
Miss Thorold, of all that has occurred between the date 
of your dismissal and the present time/’ 

He spoke with the precision of one accustomed to 
instant obedience, but Frances stiffened at the request. 

“I am sorry,” she said. “But I am not prepared to 
do anything of the kind.” 

He lifted his thin brows. “You think my demand 
unreasonable ?” 

“Not only that. I think it impertinent,” Frances said, 
and still she spoke with that simplicity which comes 
from the heart. 

“In—deed!” said the Bishop. 

There would have followed a difficult pause, but very 
quietly she filled it. “You see, there are some parts of 
one’s life so sacred, that no man or woman on earth 
has any right to trespass there. In fact, I personally 
could not admit you even if I wished to do so. If I 
gave you the key, you would not know how to use it.” 

“You amaze me!” said the Bishop. He got up and 
began jerkily to pace the room, much as his nephew 
had done on the night that she had sat in judgment upon 
him. “Are you aware,” he said after a moment, “that 
many men and women also have come to me with their 
confessions and have eased their souls thereby of many 
burdens ?” 

She watched him with her clear eyes as he moved, 
and in her look was something faintly quizzical. “Yes,” 
she said, “I can believe that many people find relief in 
throwing their burdens upon someone else. With me, 
it is not so. I prefer to bear my own.” 

He stopped and confronted her. “You presume to 
treat this subject with levity!” he said. 


335 


The Inquisitor 

“Oh, believe me, no!” She rose quickly and faced 
him. “I have been through too much for that. But 
what I have been through only God—who has kept 
me safe—will ever know. I could not even begin to tell 
an outsider that.” 

The earnestness of her speech carried weight in spite 
of him. His face softened somewhat. “You are a 
strange woman, Miss Thorold,” he said. “But I am 
willing to believe that your motives are genuine though 
your methods do not always commend themselves to me. 
Sit down again, and kindly answer the few questions I 
shall put to you, which, you may as well be assured, are 
dictated neither by curiosity nor impertinence. I have 
been placed in a very peculiar position towards you, and 
I am doing what I conceive to be my duty.” 

That moved her also. Perhaps for the first time in 
her life, she looked at him with a certain respect. “I 
will answer your questions to the best of my ability, 
my lord,” she said. 

“Enough!” said the Bishop, and waved her back to 
her chair prior to reseating himself. “First then, when 
you left me, was it alone?” 

“Quite alone,” said Frances. 

“And you went—where?” 

“I went to a village on the moors called Brookside. 
It is a few miles from Fordestown. I found a lodg¬ 
ing there.” 

“Ah! And my nephew knew your whereabouts?” 

“Certainly he did. He had offered to find me employ¬ 
ment. I had practically promised to be his secretary in 
the event of his writing a book.” 

“You did not consider that in any sense an indiscreet 
thing to do?” questioned the Bishop. 

She felt herself colour slightly, but she answered him 


336 


Tetherstones 


without hesitation. “Yes, I did. But beggars can’t be 
choosers. I tried to keep things on a business footing. 
I thought he was merely sorry for me. I did not realize 
—” she stopped abruptly. 

“That he was strongly attracted by you?” suggested 
the Bishop. 

“I did not think that I was sufficiently attractive for 
that to be possible,” she answered with simplicity. 

The flicker of a smile crossed his hard features. 
“You do not know human nature very well,” he ob¬ 
served. “But to continue! You went to Brookside. 
And then?” 

“He came to see me there,” Frances said. 

“And made love to you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Against your will?” asked the Bishop. 

She met his look with great directness. “No, it was 
not—at first—against my will. But I misunderstood 
him. And he misunderstood me. Afterwards—very 
soon afterwards—I found out my mistake. That is all 
I have to say upon that subject. It is over and done with 
now, and I do not wish to think of it again.” 

“I fear it has led to various complications,” said the 
Bishop, “which make it impossible to dismiss the matter 
in that fashion. However, we will pass on. May I 
ask you to give me the bald details of what followed?” 

She hesitated. That he was already in possession of 
most of the circumstances attending her sojourn at 
Tetherstones was a fact which she did not question, 
but she had a strong repugnance to discussing them with 
him. 

He read it, and in a moment, with a courtesy that 
surprised her, he tried to set her at her ease. 

“You need not scruple,” he said, “to speak freely to 


The Inquisitor 337 

me upon this matter. Nothing that you may tell me will 
go beyond this room.” 

“Thank you,” she said, but still she hesitated. She 
could not tell him of that terrible night with Montague 
upon the moors. At last, with an effort, “I had an un¬ 
pleasant adventure,” she said. “I was lost in a fog. A 
little blind girl from a farm near by called Tetherstones 
found me, and took me home with her. I was ill after 
that, and they nursed me.” 

“They?” queried the Bishop. 

“The Dermots,” she said. 

“Ah!” said the Bishop. 

He sat for a space lost in thought, his eyes still fixed 
upon her. 

“Tell me about them!” he said at length. “Of what 
does the family now consist?” 

She told him, and he listened with close attention. 

“What is the father like?” he asked then. 

“He is an invalid,” she said. “The son works the 
farm, and the girls all help. The mother spends most 
of her time looking after the old man.” 

“Is he very old?” asked the Bishop. 

“Very, I should say,” she answered. 

“And the child—she is blind, you say?” 

“Not now,” said Frances gently. “She is dead.” 

He bent his head. “How did she come to die?” 

“It was an accident,” Frances said. “It happened 
one night-” 

She stopped. He was looking at her strangely, al¬ 
most as if he suspected her of trying to deceive him. 

“You are sure it was an accident?” he said. 

She gazed back at him in amazement. “How could 
it have been anything else?” 

He made a peculiar gesture as if to check her ques- 



33 » 


Tetherstones 


tioning. “And the old man? Tell me more about 
him! What form does his malady take?” 

His manner was compelling. She found herself an¬ 
swering, though wonder still possessed her. “He suffers 
with his heart, and at times his brain wanders a little. 
He gave me the impression of being worn out, but I 
did not see a great deal of him.” 

“You never saw him when he was ill?” said the 
Bishop. 

“Yes, once.” She paused. 

“Once?” repeated the Bishop. 

“Yes. He was not quite himself at the time. I sat 
with him for an afternoon. He spoke rather strangely, 
I remember. He—” Again she paused. Memory was 
crowding back upon her. The inexplicable horror with 
which that day she had been inspired returned to her. 
And suddenly a strange thing happened. It was as if 
a curtain had been rent aside, showing her in a single 
blinding moment of revelation the phantom of terror 
from whose unseen presence she had so often shrunk 
in fear. 

She uttered a sharp gasp, and turned from the hard 
eyes that watched her. “That is all I can tell you,” she 
said. 

He made no comment of any sort, refraining from 
pressing her upon the subject with a composure that 
left her completely at a loss as to his state of mind. 
Her own mind at the moment was in chaos, so sudden 
and so overwhelming had been her discovery. She mar¬ 
velled at her previous blindness, but she asked no ques¬ 
tion even in her bewilderment. Her loyalty to her 
friends at Tetherstones held her silent. 

She was conscious of an urgent desire to be alone, to 
trace this thing to its source, to sort and arrange the 


339 


The Inquisitor 

many odd memories that now chased each other in wild 
confusion through her brain, to fit together once and 
for all this puzzle, the key to which had just been so 
amazingly given her. 

But the Bishop still sat before her, an uncompromis¬ 
ing inquisitor who would not suffer her to go until he 
had obtained the last iota of information that he desired. 

He spoke, with cold peremptoriness. “Well, Miss 
Thorold, there remains the matter of your further ad¬ 
ventures with my nephew. Your sojourn at Tether- 
stones at the time of your illness did not—apparently— 
terminate these. Do you object to telling me under 
what circumstances you left the Dermots?” 

“I left them finally to get work,” she said. 

“And in the first place?” said the Bishop. 

She met his look again. “In the first place I left 
them at night with your nephew. We went to an inn 
at Fordestown. He went up to town the next day, and 
I took a lodging in the place. I went back to Tether- 
stones about a week later at the request of old Dr. 
Square who attended them. The little girl was ill and 
wanted me. She died that night.” 

“And you stayed on?” said the Bishop. 

“I stayed on until two days ago, when I also went to 
town in the hope of selling some of my sketches. Your 
nephew had offered to help me.” 

“And that was your sole reason for going?” he said. 

“No, not my sole reason.” She spoke deliberately, 
and said no more. 

“But the only one you are prepared to give me?” he 
said. 

“Yes,” she answered with decision. 

He looked at his watch. “And you are not disposed 
to tell me how you came to run away—at night—with 


340 


Tetherstones 


my nephew, a man with whom you wish me to believe 
that you had no desire to be associated?” 

“No,” said Frances quietly. 

“My opinion in the matter carries no weight?” he 
suggested. 

She knitted her brows a little. “I would certainly 
rather you believed in me,” she said. “But—I cannot 
give you any convincing reason for so doing.” 

“You can if you wish,” said the Bishop. 

She shook her head. “I am afraid not.” 

He rose. “By answering two questions which con¬ 
cern yourself alone. First, why are you not willing to 
marry my nephew?” 

She looked at him, slightly startled. “Because I don’t 
love him,” she said. 

“Thank you,” said the Bishop. “And is there any 
other man whom you would be willing to marry?” 

His eyes held her. She felt the blood surge over her 
face, but she could not turn away. He waited inexor¬ 
ably for her reply. 

For a space she did battle with him, then very sud¬ 
denly, almost whimsically, she yielded. 

“Yes, my lord,” she said, and she spoke with a cer¬ 
tain pride. 

He held out his hand to her abruptly; there was even 
a glimmer of approval in his look. “Miss Thorold, you 
have convinced me,” he said. “I have misjudged you, 
and I will make amends.” 

It was not an apology. There was not a shadow of 
regret in his words, scarcely even of kindness, yet, oddly, 
they sent a rush of feeling to her heart that swept away 
her self-control. She stood speechless, fighting her emo¬ 
tion. 

“Enough!” said the Bishop, turning aside. “I must 


34i 


The Inquisitor 

go to prepare for the service. Perhaps you would like 
to walk in the garden and find refreshment there. I 
will ask you later to resume your secretarial duties.” 

He was gone. She heard the door shut definitely be¬ 
hind him, and the garden with its old-world peace 
seemed to call her. Storm-tossed and weary, she went 
out into the warm sunlight, thanking God with her 
tears. 


CHAPTER VII 


FAIR PLAY 

The deep tones of the Cathedral organ thrilled across 
the quiet garden. There came the chanting of boys’ 
voices, and then a silence. She wandered on through 
the enchanted stillness, past the cloister arch, and so by 
winding paths down to the haunted water whither her 
Fate had led her on that summer night that seemed so 
long ago. 

Her tears had ceased. She walked like a nun, her 
hands folded before her. The pain in her heart was 
wonderfully stilled. She was not thinking of herself 
any more, but of Tetherstones, and the grim secret 
that had so suddenly been bared to her gaze. She saw it 
all now—or nearly all—that skeleton which they kept 
so closely locked away, and she marvelled at her blind¬ 
ness. To have lived among them, and to have seen so 
little! 

The gentle white-haired mother with her patient si¬ 
lence—the chattering girls darkly hinting yet never re¬ 
vealing—the sombre prematurely-aged man who ruled 
them all, grinding the stones for bread, bitterly tram¬ 
pling all his ambitions underfoot, refusing to eat of the 
tree of life lest he should fail in that to which he had 
set his hand! And little Ruth—little Ruth—who had 
342 


343 


Fair Play 

lived and died among them in her innocence—the child 
whom none had wanted but all had loved,—the child 
whose passing had wrung those terrible tears from the 
man who had never seemed to care! 

Yes, she held the key to it all—that agony of despair, 
that extremity of suffering. The Bishop’s question: 
“You are sure it was an accident?” The old man’s 
halting enquiries—his relief at her reply—and then 
later his wandering words that had awakened such hor¬ 
ror within her! His three-fold vow! What had he 
meant by that? And the place of sacrifice—the place of 
sacrifice! Again she seemed to hear the mumbled words. 
And her mind, leaping from point to point, caught de¬ 
tail after detail in a stronger light. 

Now the picture of that terrible night stood out 
vividly before her. That shot in the moonlight, and her 
own conviction of tragedy! The coming of little Ruth 
to her deliverance—the banging of the door! Only 
Grandpa! The child’s words rushed back upon her. 
Only Grandpa! He had come in after those shots, had 
gone to the kitchen. How she remembered his weary, 
dragging gait! And she had fled—and she had fled! 
Again little Ruth’s words came back to her: “Oh, please 
come!” Ah, why had she not stayed with Ruth that 
night ? 

And the child had set out to seek her. Possibly she 
had gone to the old man first to see if she had returned 
to the kitchen, and not finding her, had hastened out to 
the Stones to search. 

She tried to turn her imagination at this point, but a 
power stronger than herself urged it on. She saw the 
child flitting like a spirit through the night, over the 
lawn and through the nut-trees, pausing often to listen, 
but always flitting on again. She saw a dark shadow 


344 


Tetherstones 


that followed, avoiding the open spaces, but never paus^ 
ing at all. And she remembered the eyes that once had 
glared at her through those nut-trees and she had deemed 
them a dream! 

Now she saw Ruth again out in the corn-field, hasten¬ 
ing over the stubble, drawing near to the Stones—that 
place where the giant harebells grew. And the Stones 
themselves rose up before her, stark in the moonlight, 
and the great Rocking Stone which a child could set in 
motion from below but which none might overthrow. 
And the flitting form was climbing it to find her—ah, 
why had she left little Ruth that night? 

The place of sacrifice! The place of sacrifice! The 
words ran with a mocking rhythm through her brain. 
She saw it all—the childish figure poised in the moon¬ 
light—the lurking shadow behind—a movement at first 
inperceptible, gathering in weight and strength as the 
great Stone swayed forward—and perhaps a faint cry. 

. . . She covered her eyes to blot out the dreadful 
vision. Ah, little Ruth! Little Ruth! 

When she looked up again, it had passed. Yet for a 
space her mind dwelt upon the old man and his helpless¬ 
ness—his pathetic dignity—his loneliness. And the 
mother with the eyes that were too tired to weep! She 
could understand it all now. Piece by piece the puzzle 
came together. She did not wonder any longer at the 
devotion that had inspired them all to sacrifice. They 
had done it for the mother’s sake. Ah, yes, she could 
understand! 

She reached the yew-tree by the lake where she and 
Montague had hidden together and stood still. The 
dark boughs hanging down screened the further side 
from her view, but the small fizz of a cigarette-end 
meeting the water awakened her very swiftly from her 


Fair Play 345 

reverie. She drew herself together with an instinctive 
summoning of her strength to meet him. 

But when he came round the great tree and joined 
her, she knew no fear, only a sense of the inevitable¬ 
ness of the interview. 

He spoke at once, without greeting of any sort. “I’ve 
been waiting for you. You’ve seen the Bishop?” 

“Yes,” she made answer. “He has been—very good 
to me.” 

“I can hardly imagine that,” said Rotherby dryly. 
“But he means well. Look here! I don’t know whether 
you’ll be angry, but I’ve told him everything. It was the 
only thing to do.” 

She stood before him with grave eyes meeting his. 
“Why should I be angry?” she said. “I think it was— 
rather brave of you.” 

“Brave!” he echoed, and his lips twisted a little as 
though they wanted to sneer. “Would you say that of 
the cur that takes refuge behind your skirt? No, wait! 
I’m not here to torment you with that sort of plati¬ 
tudes. It doesn’t matter what you think of me. I don’t 
count. You’ll never see me again after this show is 
over. I promise you that. I’ve led you a devil’s dance, 
but I’m nearly done. There’s only one figure left, and 
you’ve got to step that whether you want to or not.” 

“What do you mean?” Frances said, arrested rather 
by the recklessness of his speech than by the words he 
spoke. 

“I’ll tell you,” said Rotherby. “It’ll be something of 
a shock, I warn you. But you have pluck enough for 
a dozen. First then, I’ve got to own up to a lie. You 
remember that affair at Tetherstones—when I was shot 
waiting for you?” 

“Oh yes,” she said. “Yes.” She knew what was 


346 


Tetherstones 


coming, yet she waited for it with an odd breathlessness. 
Somehow so much seemed to hang upon it. 

“It was not Arthur Dermot who fired that shot,” 
Rotherby said. “It was the old man, and he meant mur¬ 
der too. But Arthur and Oliver were both there and 
that put him off. They turned up unexpectedly from 
different directions and chased him, but somehow he 
got away. I bolted—with my usual bravery.” Again 
she saw his twisted smile. He went on, scarcely paus¬ 
ing. “I didn’t tell you the truth for several reasons. I 
daresay you can guess what they were. Arthur is sane 
enough except when he sees red. But the old man—well, 
the old man is a raving lunatic at times, though he has 
his lucid intervals, I believe. He ought to be shut up of 
course, but his wife has never been able to face it. Some 
women are like that. You would be. They keep him 
shut up when he goes off the rails. I believe he has only 
got one serious mania, and that is to kill me. So it has 
been fairly easy to guard against that until lately. It 
was poor Nan’s trouble that sent him off his head in 
the first place, but if I had kept out of the way he would 
probably have remained harmless. You understand 
that, do you?” 

“I am beginning to understand—many things,” 
Frances said. But she could not speak of little Ruth to 
him. 

He also seemed glad to pass on. “Well we needn’t dis¬ 
cuss that any further. He got wind of my coming, and 
he did his best to out me. He didn’t succeed—perhaps 
fortunately, perhaps otherwise. Now to come to 
Arthur! He would have left me alone if it hadn’t been 
for you. You realize that, of course?” 

“Oh yes,” Frances said, wondering with a faint im¬ 
patience why he harped upon the matter. 


347 


Fair Play 

He saw the wonder and grimly smiled at it. “I 
realized that too,” he said. “It has simplified matters 
considerably. I told you I would play the game. Well, 
I’ve played it. After I had got down here yesterday and 
seen the Bishop, I wrote to Arthur. I told him the 
whole truth from beginning to end. He hasn’t any illu¬ 
sions left by this time concerning you—or me either.” 

“Ah, what made you do that?” Frances said. 

Strangely in that moment, deeply as his words con¬ 
cerned her, it was not of herself she thought, but of the 
man before her, with his drawn, haggard face in which 
cynicism struggled to veil suffering. 

“I don’t know why you did that,” she said. “It was 
not necessary. It was not wise.” 

“It was—fair play,” he said, and still with set lips he 
smiled. “I did more than that, and I shall do more still 
—unless you relieve me of the obligation.” 

“What do you mean?” she said. “What can you 
mean ?” 

A growing sense of uneasiness possessed her. Did 
he know Arthur Dermot’s nature? Was it not madness 
to dare again that tornado of fury from which she had 
so strenuously fought to deliver him? It had not been 
an easy thing, that deliverance. She had sacrificed 
everything to accomplish it, and now he had refuted all. 
“I think you must be mad,” she said. “Tell me what 
you mean!” 

The bitter lines deepened about his mouth. “I will 
tell you,” he said, “and once more seek the refuge of 
your generous protection. I told him that I should go 
to-day to Fordestown, and from Fordestown I would 
meet him at the Stones at any hour that he cared to 
appoint, to give him such further satisfaction as he 
might wish to demand. 


348 


Tetherstoneg 


“Montague!” The name broke from her, little ac¬ 
customed as she was to utter it. “Are you really mad?” 
she said. “Are you quite, quite mad?” 

“I am not,” he answered briefly. 

“But—but he will kill you if you meet again!” 

She gasped the words breathlessly. This thing must 
be stopped. At all costs it must be stopped. 

He w r as still smiling in that odd, drawn way. She did 
not understand his look. He raised his shoulders at her 
words. 

“He may. What of it?” 

“Oh, you mustn’t go!” she said. “It would be mad¬ 
ness—madness.” 

“I have had my answer,” said Rotherby. 

“You have?” She stared at him. “What is it? 
Quick! Tell me!” 

He pulled a telegram from his pocket and gave it to 
her. She opened it with shaking hands. Three words 
only—brief, characteristic, uncompromising! “ To-night 
at ten” No signature of any sort—only the bald reply! 

She gazed at it in silence. And before her inward 
sight there rose a vision of the man himself as she had 
seen him last, terrible in his wrath, overwhelming in his 
condemnation. Yet her heart leapt to the vision. He 
was the man she loved. 

She looked up. “You mustn’t go,” she said. “Or if 
you do—I shall come too.” 

“No,” said Rotherby. 

She met his look. “Why do you say that? What do 
you mean?” 

“I mean that you will never go anywhere with me 
again,” he said. 

“But—but—” she stumbled over the words, hearing 
other words ringing like hammer-strokes in her brain,— 


Fair Play 349 

“he will kill you—he has sworn to kill you if you go his 
way again.” 

“Do you think you could prevent it,” said Rotherby. 

She crumpled the paper in her hand. “Yes, I could 
—I would—somehow.” 

“Very well. You can,” he said. 

His manner baffled her. She looked at him uncer¬ 
tainly. “Tell me what you mean!” she said again. 

He made a curious gesture, as of a player who tosses 
down his last card knowing himself a loser. “I mean,” 
he said, “that you can go in my place. Either that—or 
I go alone.” 

Then she understood him, read the strategy by which 
he had sought to prove himself, and a deep pity surged 
up within her, blotting out all that had gone before. 

“But I couldn’t possibly go,” she said. “It wouldn’t 
really help either, though—” she halted a little—“I 
know quite well what made you do it—and—I am 
grateful.” 

“One of us will go,” Rotherby said with decision. 
“That I swear to God. It is for you to decide which.” 

There was indomitable resolution in his voice. Very 
suddenly she realized that the way before her was barred. 
She drew back instinctively. 

“But that is absurd,” she said. “You know quite 
well that there is nothing to be gained by going.” 

“Except a modicum of self-respect,” said Rotherby. 
“It may not be worth much, but, strange to say, I value 
it. I will forego it for your sake, but for no other con¬ 
sideration under the sun.” 

He was immovable; she saw it. Yet in despair she 
made another effort to move him. “But how could I 
go?” she protested. “It is utterly out of the question. 
You know it is out of the question.” 


350 Tethers tones 

“Do I know it?” said Rotherby, with his faint half- 
scoffing smile. 

“If you think at all, you must,” she said. “I couldn’t 
possibly face it. Not after—after-” 

“After he has been told the truth in such a fashion 
that he cannot possibly doubt you,” said Rotherby. 
“Forgive me, but I thought—love—was capable of any¬ 
thing. If it isn’t, well—as I said before—I go alone. 
That is quite final, so we needn’t argue about it. There 
is a train to Fordestown at five this afternoon. I shall 
go by that, and pick up a conveyance at the station.” 

“There are none,” she said, clutching at a straw. 

“Then I shall go to The Man in the Moon for one. 
Anyway, I shall keep my appointment—with time to 
spare,” said Rotherby. “You might give us a thought 
before you turn in. It’ll be an interesting interview— 
even more so than our last.” 

He swung upon his heel with the words, but Frances 
threw out a hand, grasping his arm. 

“Montague,—please—you’re not in earnest! You 
can’t be! I mean—it’s so utterly preposterous.” 

He stood still, the smile gone from his face. Very 
suddenly he threw aside the cloak of irony in which 
he had wrapped himself, and met her appeal with abso¬ 
lute sincerity. 

“I am in earnest,” he said. “And it is not prepos¬ 
terous. Can’t you realize that a time may come in a 
man’s life when just for his own soul’s sake he has got 
to prove to himself that he is not an utter skunk? It 
doesn’t matter what other people think. They can think 
what they damn’ well please. But he himself—the thing 
that goes with him always, that sleeps when he sleeps 
and wakes when he wakes—do you think he can afford 
to be out with that? By God, no! Life isn’t worth 


Fair Play 351 

having under those conditions. I’d sooner die and be 
damned straight away.” 

He laughed upon the words, but it was a laugh of 
exceeding bitterness. And there came to Frances in that 
moment the conviction that what he said was right. 
No power on earth can ever compensate for the loss of 
self-respect. 

Somehow that passionate utterance of his went 
straight to her heart. If she had not forgiven him be¬ 
fore, her forgiveness was now complete and generous. 
She saw in him in the hour of his repentance the man 
whom once she could have loved, and she was deeply 
moved thereby. 

“Are you satisfied?” he said. “Have I convinced 
you that I am playing the game—or trying to?” 

She met his eyes though she knew that her own were 
wet. “Yes, I am convinced,” she said. “I am satisfied.” 

“And what are you going to do?” he questioned. 

Very simply she made answer. “I will go to Tether- 
stones.” 

He drew a hard breath. “You’re not afraid?” 

“No,” she said. 

He put an urgent hand on her shoulder. “Frances,” 
he said, “you must make him understand.” 

“He will understand,” she said. 

He bent towards her. His voice came huskily. “It 
isn’t only—for myself,” he said. “You know that?” 

“I know,” she said. 

“I want to win your forgiveness,” he said, and there 
was appeal in the pressure of his hand. “Have I got 
that?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“You are sure?” Voice and touch alike pleaded 
with her. 


352 


Tetherstones 


She felt the tears welling to her eyes. “From my very 
heart,” she said. “Yes, I am sure.” 

She offered him both her hands, and he took and held 
them closely for a space, then abruptly he let them go. 

“You will never love me,” he said, “but it may please 
you some day to remember that you taught me how to 
love.” 

And with that he turned and walked away from her, 
not suffering himself to look back. She knew even as 
she watched him go that he would keep his word and 
that she would never see him again. 

Out of sheer pity it came to her to call him back, but 
a stronger impulse held her silent. She became aware 
very suddenly of the crumpled paper in her hand, and, 
as the solitude of the place came about her with his 
going, she spread it open once again and read. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE PLACE OF SACRIFICE 

An owl was hooting in the moonlit distance, and the 
ripple, ripple, ripple of running water filled in the 
silences. A vast loneliness—the loneliness of the moors 
at night which is somehow like an unseen presence— 
wrapped the whole world as in a mantle which the weird 
cry of the wandering bird pierced but could not lift. 
The scent of wet bog-myrtle with now and then a waft 
of late honeysuckle was in the air. And from the east, 
silver, majestic, wonderful, a moon that was nearly 
full mounted upwards to her throne above the earth. 

The rough track that led to the Stones was clearly 
defined in its radiance, and the Stones themselves stood 
up like sentinels on the hill. A wonderful place! Yes, a 
wonderful place, but how desolate, and barbaric in its 
desolation! 

A woman stood at the gate that opened from the 
lane on to that steep track. She had walked up from 
the village in the moonlight, and before her it was as 
clear as day, but she stood as one hesitating to emerge 
from the shadows. Her hands were folded together as 
if in prayer. 

A vagrant breeze stirring the high hedges that bor¬ 
dered the lane made her turn her head sharply to listen, 
and a faint, vague sound from down the hill brought a 
353 


354 


Tetherstones 


further movement of attention from her. But the sound 
ceased—it might have been some scurrying wild thing 
—the wind died down, sighing sadly away, and all was 
quiet again, save for that unseen, trickling water, and 
the far, haunting cry of the owl on the hill-side. 

But her own movement had given her courage, or 
perhaps she feared to remain; for she paused no longer 
at the gate. Noiselessly she opened it and passed 
through. Then closing it, she stood for a moment, look¬ 
ing back. Down the lane a light glimmered, fitfully, seen 
through tree-branches—Tetherstones. 

Her eyes sought it with a certain wistfulness, dwelt 
upon it, then resolutely, with a sigh half-checked she 
turned and mounted the hill, walking rapidly and sound¬ 
lessly over the short grass beside the track. Nearer 
and nearer she drew to the Stones in their gaunt splen¬ 
dour, and the spell of the place encompassed her like an 
enchantment; but she hesitated no more. Firmly, 
steadfastly, she pursued her way. 

Once indeed she gave a great start as a horned crea¬ 
ture blundered suddenly up in front of her, and dashed 
away with clattering feet over the scattered stones, but 
she checked her instinctive alarm with swift self-asser¬ 
tion. It was only a goat more startled than herself. 
What was there to fear? 

She came at last into the great circle, pushing through 
coarse straggling grass till she reached the smooth, 
boulder-strewn turf where the sheep and the goats had 
grazed. And here she stopped and looked around her 
in the moonlight with the feeling strong upon her that 
she was being watched. 

Again, with an effort of will, she dismissed the 
thought. It was the stark emptiness of the place that 
induced it; of that she was certain. For there was no 


The Place of Sacrifice 


355 


sign of movement anywhere; only the great Tether 
Stones standing round, a grim challenge to the centuries. 
She turned slowly after a time and faced the Rocking 
Stone. More than ever now in the moonlight had it 
the appearance of rolling towards her, as though set in 
motion by some unseen hand. And she shuddered as 
she watched it. The eeriness of the place was beginning 
to fold itself around her irresistibly, almost suffocat¬ 
ingly. 

“Why should I be afraid?” she whispered to herself, 
clenching her hands desperately to keep down the panic 
that was knocking at her heart. “There is nothing here 
to hurt me. They are only stones.” 

Only stones! Yet they seemed to threaten her by 
their very immobility, their coldness, their silence. She 
was an intruder in their midst, and whichever way she 
turned that sensation of being watched went with her, 
oppressed her. The hooting of the owl in the distance 
was somehow like the calling of a lost spirit, wander¬ 
ing to and fro, seeking rest—and finding none. . . . 
There was no other sound in all the world, though her 
ears were strained to listen. Even the music of the 
streams was hushed up here. 

“They are only stones,” she said to herself again, 
and began to walk down the centre of the circle towards 
the Rocking Stone, defying that engulfing, fateful si¬ 
lence with all her strength. Within a dozen yards of 
it something stopped her, as surely as if a hand had 
caught her back. She stood still, not breathing. 

Was it fancy? Was it reality? The monstrous thing 
was moving! Like a seated giant giving her salutation 
it swayed slowly forward. And what were those long, 
crimson streaks upon it that gleamed as if wet in the 
moonlight ? 


356 


Tetherstones 


She stood as one transfixed, possessed by horror. A 
devil’s paradise! The words rushed meteor-like through 
her brain. Surely this gruesome place was haunted by 
devils! 

Fascinated, she watched the great stone. Would it 
leave its resting-place, roll down to her, annihilate her? 
Had it started upon its dread course she knew she could 
not have avoided it. She was paralyzed by terror, 
possibly the more intense because of its utter unreason. 

That some animal might have set the thing in motion 
was a possibility that did not even cross her mind. She 
knew, without any proof, that some evil influence was 
at work. She could feel it with every gasping breath 
she drew. 

Downwards and yet further downwards rocked the 
great Stone, and at the last there came a grinding noise 
as though some substance were being pulverized be¬ 
neath it. It was unutterably horrible to the looker-on, 
but still she could not turn and flee. She was as much 
a prisoner as though she were indeed tethered to one 
of those grim monsters that stood about her. 

Spell-bound as one in a nightmare, she stood and 
watched, quaking and powerless, saw the thing begin 
to lift again like some prehistoric beast of prey rising 
from its slaughtered victim, saw it roll slowly back 
again soundlessly, as if on hinges, with the inevitable 
poise which alone kept it in its place, saw the dreadful 
crimson streaks and patches that dripped down its 
scarred front. And suddenly the bond that held her 
snapped. She turned from the dreadful sight and fled 
through the ghastly solitude as if she fled for her life. 

Again the cry of the owl sounded, much nearer now, 
and she thought it was the shriek of a pursuing demon. 
Through that grass-grown place of sacrifice she tore 


The Place of Sacrifice 


357 


like the wind, so goaded by fear as to be hardly con¬ 
scious of direction. And now the shriek of the demon 
had become a yell of mocking laughter that died away 
with dreadful echoes among the Stones. . . . 

She reached the open hill-side beyond that awful 
Circle, and here abruptly she was stayed. A madden¬ 
ing pain awoke in her side and she could go no further. 
The pain was acute for a few seconds, and she crouched 
in the grass in her extremity, fighting for breath. Then, 
gradually recovering, she began to tell her racing heart 
that she had fled from shadows. Yet it was no shadow 
that had moved that Rocking Stone. 

Her strength returned to her at last and she stood up. 
But she could not return to that terrible trysting-place. 
Her knees were shaking still. There was only one 
course left if she would keep her tryst, and though her 
whole soul shrank from the thought of it, yet was she 
in honor bound to fulfil that pledge. Since she could 
not return, she must wait on the hill-side till he came. 
The appointed time must be drawing near now, and if 
she knew him he would not be late. 

Even with the thought there rose a sound from the 
valley below her,—a clear and beautiful sound that went 
far to dispel that sense of lurking evil that so oppressed 
her—the church-clock striking ten. It renewed her 
courage, it stilled that wild, insensate fear within her. 
It gave her the power that belongs to purity. 

No longer weak and stumbling, she left the spot where 
she had crouched and walked across the grass towards 
the track by which he would come. And as she went, 
there came to her the clang of the gate that led out of 
the lane. He was coming! 

She realized abruptly that she could not stand and 
await him in the full moonlight. The shadows of the 


358 


Tetherstones 


Stones fell densely not fifty yards away, and, conquer¬ 
ing that instinct that urged her in the opposite direction, 
she directed her steps towards them. The consciousness 
of another human presence went far to disperse the 
ghostly influence of the place. The definite effort that 
lay before her drove the thought of forces less concrete 
into the background. At the very entrance to the arena, 
screened by the shadow of the first great Tether Stone 
she waited for him. 

Immediately below her was the cattle-shed with its 
thatched roof, within which she and Montague Rotherby 
had found shelter on that night of fog when deliverance 
had so wonderfully come to her. Her mind dwelt upon 
the memory for a moment, then swiftly flashed back to 
the present, for, distinct in the stillness, there came to 
her the sound of his feet upon the track. Her heart 
gave a wild bound of recognition. How well she knew 
that sound! 

Slow and regular and unfalteringly firm, they mounted 
the steep ascent while she stood waiting in the shadow. 
Now she could see him, a dark and powerful figure, 
walking with bent head, coming straight towards her, 
pursuing his undeviating course. Now he was close at 
hand. And now— 

What moved her suddenly to look towards the cattle- 
shed—the flash of something that gleamed with a steely 
brightness in the moonlight, or an influence more subtle 
and infinitely more compelling. She knew not, but in 
that moment she looked, and looking, sprang forward 
with a cry. For in the entrance, clear against the black¬ 
ness behind, she saw a face, corpse-like in its whiteness, 
but alive with a murderous malice,—the face of a devil. 

Her cry arrested the man upon the path. He stood 
still, and she rushed to him with arms outspread, inter- 


The Place of Sacrifice 359 

vening between him and the evil thing that lurked in 
the shed. 

She reached him, flung her arms around him. 
“Arthur—Arthur! For God’s sake—come away from 
this dreadful place—this dreadful place!” 

Wildly she poured forth the words, seeking with 
frantic urgency to turn him from the path. But he 
stood like a rock, resisting her. 

“What are you doing here?” he said. 

She tried to tell him, but explanation failed. “I came 
to meet you, but—there is—there is something dreadful 
in the barn. Don’t go near! Come away! Oh, come 
away!” 

But still he stood, resisting her desperate efforts to 
move him. “I have come to meet Rotherby,” he said. 
“You go—and let me meet him alone!” 

The curt words steadied her somewhat, but she could 
not let him go. “Arthur, please,—listen!” she urged. 
“He isn’t here. I came in his place. But there is some¬ 
thing terrible in the shed. I don’t know what. I only 
know—I only know—that the whole place is full of evil, 
and the thing I saw—the thing I saw—is probably one 
of many.” 

She was trembling violently, and his hand came up 
and supported her. “Oh, why did you come?” he said, 
and his tone held more of reproach than questioning. 

She answered him notwithstanding. “I had to come. 
There was no choice. But don’t let us stay! I have 
seen the Rocking Stone move. I have seen—a thing 
like a devil in the barn.” 

“How long have you been here?” he said. 

She was shivering still. “I don’t know —a long time. 
But that awful thing-” 

He turned towards the barn. “Your nerves have 



360 Tetherstones 

been playing you tricks,” he said. “There is nothing 
here.” 

She hung back, still clinging to him, reassured by 
his confidence in spite of herself, yet afraid beneath 
her reassurance. 

“It couldn’t have been fancy. I am not fanciful. 
Arthur, don’t go! Don’t go!” 

He stopped and looked at her, and in his eyes was that 
which strangely moved her, stilling her entreaty, over¬ 
whelming her fear, banishing every thought in her heart 
but the one great rapture of her soul as it leaped to his. 

So for a long moment they stood, then his arm went 
round her. He turned aside. 

“We will go to the Stones,” he said, “and leave these 
banshees to look after themselves. It was probably a 
goat you saw.” 

“She went with him, almost convinced that he was 
right and that her fancy had tricked her. She would 
have gone with him in that moment if all the ghosts of 
the centuries had awaited them among the Stones. 

As they passed into the great arena, he uttered a 
groan, and his arm relaxed and fell. “This is absolute 
madness,” he said. “I told you before. I am tied. I 
am a prisoner. I shall never be free.” The iron of 
despair was in his voice. 

“Then I will be a prisoner too,” she said. 

“No—no! Why did that scoundrel send you to me? 
Why didn’t he come himself?” He flung the words 
passionately, as though the emotions surging within him 
were greater than he could control. 

But she answered him steadfastly, without agitation. 
“Arthur, listen! He sent me to you because he is 
ashamed of all that has gone before—and because he 
wished to make amends. He has gone out of my life. 


The Place of Sacrifice 361 

But I have forgiven him, and—some day—I hope you 
will forgive him too.” 

“Never!” he said. “Never! I would have killed him 
with my naked hands if I had had the chance.” 

She suppressed a shiver at the memory his words 
called up. “That is not worthy of you. Forgiveness is 
a greater thing than revenge—oh, so much greater. 
And love is greater than all. You won’t believe it, but 
—he was capable of love.” 

“He was capable of anything,” Arthur said, “except 
playing a straight game.” 

“You are wrong,” she said earnestly. “You are 
wrong. He has played a straight game now in telling 
you the truth and in sending me to you. He made me 
come, do you understand? I didn’t want to—I would 
rather have done anything than come. But he would 
have come himself if I hadn’t. And so-” 

“You came to save his life?” suggested Arthur, with 
a bitter sneer. 

She answered him with the simplicity that is above 
bitterness. “I came to save you both.” 

He looked at her with a certain grimness. “And why 
didn’t you want to come?” 

Again with absolute directness she answered him. 
“Because I knew how it would hurt you to send me 
away again.” 

He swung away from her and again she heard him 
groan. “This is well named the place of sacrifice,” he 
said. “Do you remember the day I first brought you 
here? I loved you then, and I knew it was hopeless— 
utterly hopeless. It is more so than ever now. I can’t 
go on. I won’t go on. This thing has got to stop. God 
knows I have fought it. You have got to fight it too, 
—go on fighting till it dies.” 



362 


Tetherstones 


“It will rise again,” she said. 

His hands clenched. “I’ve never been beaten yet,” 
he said. 

To which she made no answer, for she knew, as he 
did, that there is no power in earth or heaven so omni¬ 
potent as the power of Love. 

They went on together, side by side down that great 
arena, the gaunt Stones all around them like monstrous 
idols in a forgotten place of worship. They drew near 
to the Rocking Stone, and very suddenly Arthur 
stopped. 

He stood before it in utter silence, and she wondered 
what was passing in his mind. The moonlight shone 
full upon the face of the Stone. She saw again those 
strange red streaks of which old Mr. Dermot had told 
her. But her fear was gone, swallowed up in that which 
was infinitely greater—her love for the man at her side. 

How long they stood thus she did not know. She 
began to realize that he was bracing himself anew for 
sacrifice, that he was battling desperately for the mastery 
against odds such as even he had never faced before. 
She saw him once more as a gladiator, terrible in his 
resolution, indomitable as the Stone he faced, invincible 
so long as the breath remained in his body. His last 
words kept hammering in her brain with the swing and 
rhythm of a haunting refrain: “I’ve never been beaten 
yet—I’ve never been beaten yet.” And through them, 
faint, thread-like as a far-off echo, she heard another 
voice—whether of child or angel she knew not: “You’ll 
find it up by the Stones, where the giant hare-bells grow. 
It’s the most precious thing in the world, and when you 
find it, keep it—always—always—always!” 

The giant hare-bells! There they grew at the foot of 
that grim Stone where the child had lain all night, un- 


The Place of Sacrifice 


363 


afraid because God was there. She saw them, pale in 
the moonlight, and in memory of little Ruth she stooped 
to gather one. 

It was then that it happened,—so suddenly, so appall¬ 
ingly,—with a crash as if the heavens were rent above 
her. A blinding red flame seemed to spring from the 
very ground in front of her, the smell of burning choked 
her senses. The whole world rocked and burst into a 
blaze. She went backwards, conscious of Arthur’s arms 
around her, conscious that they fell together ... or 
were they hurled into space among the wandering star- 
atoms to drift for evermore hither and thither—spirits 
without a home? 

“From all evil and mischief, from sin, from the 
crafts and assaults of the devil, from Thy wrath—and 
from everlasting damnation” (that dreadful irremedi¬ 
able doom in which she had never believed), “Good 
Lord, deliver us.” 


CHAPTER IX 


WHERE THE GIANT HARE-BELLS GROW 

Who was that whispering behind the screen—Lucy 
and Nell, could it be, audible as ever, though hidden from 
sight? It was like a long-forgotten story, begun years 
since and never finished. 

“Dr. Square says she may just drift away and never 
recover consciousness at all; but her heart is a little 
stronger than it was, and she is able to take nourish¬ 
ment, so she may rally and sleep it off. I wonder if she 
will remember anything if she does.” 

“Oh, I hope—I hope she won’t!” This was surely 
Lucy’s voice, hushed and tearful. “She may have 
seen him lying dead, all torn by the explosion. It would 
be dreadful for her to remember that.” 

“Well, thank God he is dead!” Nell spoke stoutly, 
as one expectant of rebuke. “The life we have led has 
been enough to kill us all. Whatever happens, things 
must get better now.” 

“Oh, hush!” imploringly from Lucy. “It is wrong 
—it must be wrong to talk like that.” 

“I don’t see why,” combatively from Nell. “God must 
have arranged it all. And when you’ve carried a bur¬ 
den that’s too big for you, it can’t be wrong to be thank¬ 
ful when He takes it away.” 

364 


Where the Giant Hare-Bells Grow 365 

“But think of Mother!” Lucy’s whisper was broken 
with tears. 

“I do think of her. And I know she is thankful too. 
My dear, you are thankful yourself. Why disguise it? 
It isn’t wrong to be thankful.” Nell spoke with vigor¬ 
ous decision. “If only she gets over this—and I don’t 
see why she shouldn’t, for it’s only shock, nothing else 
—why, all our troubles will be over. The inquest was 
the simplest thing in the world—nothing but sympathy 
and condolences, no tiresome questions at all. I’m 
ashamed of you, Lucy, for having so little spirit. 
Don’t you see what it means to us? Why, we’re free— 
we’re free—we’re free!” 

To which, sighing, Lucy could only answer, “It 
doesn’t seem right. And she hasn’t got over it yet, and 
even if she does-” 

“Which she will!” Nell’s voice arose above a whis¬ 
per and ran with confidence. “Which she shall and will! 
How I would like to know what brought her there! I 
wonder if she will ever tell us.” 

“I wonder,” murmured Lucy. 

Thereafter for a space there was silence, and then 
there began that gradual groping towards the light which 
comes to a brain awakening. Who was it who was lying 
dead among the Stones? And why were they all so 
thankful? Then at last she opened her eyes to the soft 
sunshine of late autumn and awoke from her long, 
trance-like sleep. 

Someone rose to minister to her, and she saw the 
white-haired mother with her patient eyes bending over 
her. She smiled upon her with a great tenderness. 

“So you are awake!” she said, and Frances knew that 



366 


Tetherstones 


she was glad. “Don’t try to move too quickly! Just 
wait till your strength comes back!” 

“Am I ill then?” Frances asked her, wondering. 

And she answered gently, “No, dear. Only tired. 
You will be quite all right presently. Just lie still!” 

So Frances lay still and pondered, fitting the puzzle 
piece by piece, slowly, painfully, till at length with re¬ 
turning memory the picture was complete. But who was 
lying dead among the Stones? And why—oh, why— 
were they thankful?” 

She could not ask the quiet woman by her side. The 
sad face bent over her work somehow held her silent, so 
deep were its lines of suffering. But the need to know 
was strong upon her. Someone was lying dead. Some¬ 
one had been killed. Who? Oh, who? And what had 
caused that frightful explosion up there among the 
Stones ? 

There came to her again the memory of Arthur’s 
arms holding her. And they had gone out together 
into the star-wide spaces. How was it that she had re¬ 
turned—alone ? 

Something awoke within her, urging her. She sat 
up, not conscious of any effort. 

Mrs. Dermot came to her. “What is it, dear? Are 
you wanting something?” 

Frances looked at her, but still she could not ask that 
dread question. Her lips refused to frame it. Not of 
anyone could she have borne to ask that which so earn¬ 
estly she desired to know. She must find out for her¬ 
self. She must go to the Stones. If he were dead— 
and in her heart she knew he must be—she would meet 
his spirit there. 

And she must go alone. 

She met Mrs. Dermot’s gentle questioning very stead- 


Where the Giant Hare-Bells Grow 367 

fastly. “I want to get up, please,” she said. “I am go¬ 
ing to the Stones—to look for something.” 

She expected opposition, but she met with none. Mrs. 
Dermot seemed to understand. 

“Whatever you wish, dear,” she said. “But don’t 
overtax your strength!” 

She helped her to dress, but she did not offer to ac¬ 
company her. And so presently Frances found herself 
out in the misty sunshine, hastening with a desperate 
concentration of will towards the place of sacrifice. 

She never remembered any stages of her journey 
later, so fixed was she upon reaching her destination. 
But as she sped up the steep track, her heart was racing 
within her, and, conscious of weakness, she had to 
pause ere she reached the top to give herself breathing- 
space. 

Then she pressed on, never once looking back, pass¬ 
ing the cattle-shed without a glance, reaching the Stones 
at length and moving fearlessly in among the long 
shadows cast by the setting sun. 

A warm glow lay everywhere, softening the dread 
desolation of the place. She walked straight down the 
great circle, looking neither to right nor to left, straight 
to that point whence she had stood and watched the 
ghostly Rocking Stone sway before her like a prehis¬ 
toric monster in dumb salute. And here she stood 
again, arrested by a sight that made her suddenly cold. 
The Rocking Stone was gone,—crumbled into a shat¬ 
tered heap of grey stones, around which the giant hare¬ 
bells still flowered in their purple splendour! 

She caught her breath. This was where he was ly¬ 
ing dead. This was where she would meet his spirit. 

Again little Ruth’s message ran like a silvery echo 
through the seething uncertainty of her soul. “You’ll 


368 


Tetherstones 


find it up by the Stones, where the giant hare-bells grow 
—something that you’re wanting—that you’ve wanted 
always—very big—bigger even than the Rocking Stone. 
If you can’t find it by yourself, Uncle Arthur will help 
you. You’ll know it when you find it—because it’s the 
most precious thing in the world.” 

The echo sank away, and the loneliness that was like 
an unseen presence came close about her. The silence was 
intense, so intense that she heard her own heart jerk¬ 
ing and stopping, jerking and stopping, as the hope that 
had inspired her slowly died. 

She stood motionless before that tragic heap of stones, 
and the unseen presence drew closer, closer yet. Then, 
rising clear from the valley, there came to her the sound 
of the church-clock striking the hour. 

That released her from the spell. She lifted her 
clasped hands above the ruin before her and prayed,— 
prayed aloud and passionately, pouring forth the an¬ 
guish of her soul. 

“O God, let him come to me—only once—only once! 
O God, send his spirit back to me,—if only for one 
moment—that we may know that our love is eternal— 
that holy thing—that nothing—can ever change—or 
take away!” 

The agony of her appeal went up through the loneli¬ 
ness, and she stood with closed eyes and waited for her 
answer. For she knew that an answer would be sent. 
Already, deep within her, was the certainty of his com¬ 
ing. Had she not told him on this very spot that their 
love would rise again? 

And so she waited for that unseen presence among 
the barren and desolate stones, felt it drawing near to 
her, felt the surge and quiver of her heart at its nearness. 
And then—very suddenly—a great wave of exaltation 


Where the Giant Hare-Bells Grow 369 

that was almost more than she could bear caught her, 
uplifted her, compelled her. She turned by no volition 
of her own,—and met him face to face. . . . 

“Arthur!” she said. 

And heard his answering voice, deeply moved, deeply 
tender. “Frances! Frances! Frances!” 

She was in his arms, she was clinging to him, before 
she knew that it was flesh and blood that had answered 
her cry. But she knew it then. His lips upon her own 
dispelled all doubt, banished all questioning. The rap¬ 
ture of those moments was the rapture which few may 
ever know on earth. He had come back to her, as it 
were, from the dead. Later, it seemed to her that no 
words at all could have passed between them during 
that wonderful re-union. Surely there are no words 
that can express the joy of those who love when at last 
they meet again! Is there in earth or Heaven any lan¬ 
guage that can utter so great a gladness ? 

She only remembered that when speech again was 
possible they were walking side by side through the 
chequered spaces of sunlight and shadow that lay be¬ 
tween the Stones. And the desolation was gone for ever 
from her heart. 

His arm was about her. He held her very closely. 

“Why did you come up here?” he asked her. 

And when she answered, “To find you,” he drew her 
closer still. 

“My mother told me. I followed you. She would 
have told you everything if you had asked, but the doc¬ 
tor said it must come gradually. She was afraid of 
giving you a shock.” 

“I was afraid to ask,” said Frances. 

He looked down at her. “You’re not afraid now. 
Shall I tell you everything?” 


370 


Tetherstones 


She met his look. “I know a good deal. I know 
about—Nan, and about your father,—at least in part.” 

“You have got to know—everything,” he said, and 
stopped where he had stopped once before to gaze out 
between the Stones to the infinite distance. “And you 
are to understand, Frances, that what has passed be¬ 
tween us now can be wiped out—as if it had never been, 
if you so desire it. You know about—my sister Nan.” 
His voice dropped. “I can’t talk about her even to 
you, except to tell you that you are somehow like her. 
That was what made my father take to you. He didn’t 
take to any strangers as a rule. Neither did I.” Again 
she was conscious of the close holding of his arm, but he 
did not turn his eyes towards her. He went sombrely 
on. “We gave up everything and came here because the 
trouble over Nan had turned his brain. He wanted to 
tear across the world and kill my cousin. So did I— 
once. But—my mother—well, you know my mother. 
You realized long ago that all we did was for her sake. 
And so—since so far as we knew, my father had only 
the one mania and was sane on all other points—we 
came here. Nan’s baby was born here. We settled 
down. My father never liked the life, but he got better. 
We hoped his brain was recovering. Then—one winter 
night—the madness broke out again. I was away on 
business. He got up in the early morning, went to 
Nan’s room, and ordered her out of the house with her 
child. He terrified her, and she went. The next morn¬ 
ing she was found up by the Stones in deep snow, dead. 
The child was living, but she was always a weakling, 
and she lost her sight. My father had a seizure when 
he heard that Nan was dead. In his delirium he told 
them what he had done. Butt when he came to himself 
he had forgotten, and his distress over the loss of Nan 


Where the Giant Hare-Bells Grow 371 

was heart-rending. Of course he ought to have been 
sent away. My uncle, Theodore Rotherby, had urged 
it from the outset; but my poor mother would not hear 
of it. And I—well, I hadn’t the heart to insist. After 
that, I never left home again. Either Oliver or I kept 
guard day and night. But except for occasional out¬ 
bursts of unreasonable anger he became much better, 
almost normal. He regarded me as his gaoler and hated 
me, but he always worshipped my mother. I believe 
it would have killed him to be parted from her. Better 
if it had perhaps, but—it’s too late now. What I did, 
I did for the best.” He uttered a heavy sigh. “It bru¬ 
talized me. I couldn’t help it. It didn’t seem to matter. 
Nothing ever mattered till you came. I was harsh with 
the girls, I was harsh with everyone—except my mother. 
Life was so damnable. There were times when the bur¬ 
den seemed past bearing. The perpetual strain, year in, 
year out,—only God knows what it was.” 

“I can guess,” whispered Frances. 

His brooding eyes softened somewhat, but still he 
did not look at her. “Then you came. You changed 
everything. But that letter—you remember that lost 
letter ? My father found it, recognized the writing, knew 
that my cousin was in the neighbourhood. That brought 
everything back. Somehow from the first he always 
connected you with Nan. There is a resemblance, 
though I can’t tell you where it lies. On the night my 
cousin came to meet you at the Stones—that ghastly 
night—he broke out. I think you know what happened. 
He tried to murder him, but he got away. Oliver was 
there, but he ought to have been earlier. I blamed him 
for that. The mischief might have been avoided. How¬ 
ever, my cousin got away, and my father dodged us 
and came back to the house. There he left his gun, 


372 


Tetherstones 


thinking he had killed his man. Then he must have seen 
the child. Possibly she spoke to him. I don’t know. 
But the lust for murder was on him that night. He 
followed her to the Stones, dodging us again, and saw 
her climb on to the Rocking Stone. He had made a 
great study of the Stones, and it was he who had dis¬ 
covered how to make the thing move. He used his 
knowledge on that occasion, and—and—well, you know 
what happened.” His arm tightened about her convul¬ 
sively. 

“Oh, don’t tell me any morel” Frances said. 

He bit his lip and continued. “It all came out after¬ 
wards in his ravings, but we suspected foul play before. 
I was practically sure of it. Frances, it nearly killed 
my mother. I shall never forget her agony as long as 
I live.” 

“My dear—my dear!” Frances said. But she was 
thinking of the man’s own agony which she had wit¬ 
nessed in the farm-kitchen on the night of little Ruth’s 
death. 

He drew a hard breath between his teeth. “Then, 
as you know, he was taken ill. And I hoped he would 
die. My God! How I hoped he would die! That 
night with you in the garden—do you remember? The 
night you offered yourself to me! I could have fallen 
at your feet and worshipped you that night. But— 
I had to turn away. You understood, didn’t you? You 
knew?” A passionate note sounded in his voice. 

“Oh yes, I knew,” Frances said. 

He went on with an effort. “I was nearly mad with 
trouble myself after that. And afterwards—when you 
were gone and I heard from Maggie that you had been 
inveigled into going up to town alone to meet that scoun¬ 
drel, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to follow 


Where the Giant Hare-Bells Grow 373 

you. I went to his rooms and I dogged him that night. 
I was like a man possessed—as much a murderer at 
heart as my father had ever been. If you hadn’t stopped 
me, I should have killed him. But—oh, Frances,—” 
his deep voice broke—“nothing was worth while after 
that lie of yours. If it hadn’t been for my mother I 
should have put an end to myself.” 

She laid her cheek against his shoulder. “Arthur! 
Do you think I found it easy—to lie? It nearly killed 
me too.” 

“Wait!” he said. “Hear it all! I came back. I found 
my father better. But I was at the end of my endurance. 
I couldn’t go on. I told my mother so. I told her he 
must be certified insane and put away. She said I was 
quite right, though I know it would have broken her 
heart to have done it. I told her I must go right away 
too—to save my own sanity. And she—God bless her 
—she understood without any words. She just told me 
to go. Then I had my cousin’s letter, telling me every¬ 
thing, vindicating you. I shouldn’t have believed him 
if I hadn’t known you. But—knowing you—I knew it 
was true. He asked for a meeting, and I agreed. Some¬ 
how I couldn’t help it. It seemed inevitable. You 
know how sometimes one is pushed by Fate. I was 
bound to agree. I don’t know what would have hap¬ 
pened if I had met him. I might have killed him. I 
can’t say. But I had only my hands to do it with. I 
didn’t set out to kill him. And then—you came instead. 
You were frightened. You thought you had seen a 
devil. Do you know what it was you saw?” 

“Your father!” she whispered. 

“My father, yes. He had been wandering among 
the Stones, and I can only think that he had remembered 
about the child, and in a fit of mad remorse he had 


374 


Tetherstones 


made up his mind to destroy the Rocking Stone,—pos¬ 
sibly himself also. It is all surmise now. Anyhow, 
when you saw the Stone move, he must have been put¬ 
ting the charge underneath. And afterwards—when 
you and I were standing there—the murderous impulse 
must have seized him again. Perhaps he took me for 
Montague, and he may have thought you were Nan. 
I don’t know. It is impossible to say. Anyway, he 
fired the fuse, and blasted the Stone. God only knows 
how we escaped unhurt. But he—but he-” 

“He was killed?” said Frances. 

“Yes, instantly. When I came to myself, you were 
unconscious and he was lying dead among the stones. 
Oliver and some of the men heard the noise and came 
up. We carried you back. I thought you were dead, 
but Dr. Square said it was only shock, that in a few 
days, given absolute quiet, you might recover.” 

“A few days!” said Frances, wonderingly. 

“It happened a week ago,” he said. “You were semi¬ 
conscious once or twice, and then you seemed to sleep. 
That was what brought you back.” 

“How amazing!” she said. 

He turned for the first time and looked down into her 
upraised face. “I thought you would never come back,” 
he said, and in voice and look she gauged the misery to 
which he gave no words. “I never had any hope.” 

The tears sprang to her eyes. She clung to him voice¬ 
lessly for a few seconds. Then: “And I thought you 
were dead!” she whispered. “That was why I didn’t 
dare to ask!” 

He took her shoulders between his hands, holding her 
slightly from him. “Frances, listen!” he said. “I’m 
going to be fair to you. I won’t take you—like this. 
You don’t know what I am—a hard man, melancholy, 



Where the Giant Hare-Bells Grow 375 

bitter, the son of a murderer, not fit for any woman to 
love, much less marry. I am going away—as I said. 
Maggie and Oliver will run the farm. My mother will 
stay on with them. The girls will either stay or find 
their own way in the world. I’ve come to see that it 
isn’t for me to hold them in any longer. Maggie made 
me realize that—you too. But I always had the thought 
of Nan before me. That was what made me so hard 
with them. But I’m going away now. And you will 
go back to the Bishop. He wants you. I believe he 
will be decent to you. I have heard from him about 
you. Some day—some day—you will find a man 
worthy of you. Not me—not Montague—someone you 
can give your whole heart to—and trust.” 

He paused a moment. His face was quivering. She 
saw him again—a gladiator fighting his desperate 
battle, conquered yet still not beaten to earth, holding 
her from him, defying the irresistible, ready to make the 
last and utmost sacrifice, that she might suffer no hurt. 

And then, with a gesture of renunciation, he dropped 
his hands from her and let her go. 

“That’s all,” he said, and there was a tremor in his 
voice which thrilled her through and through. “You 
are free. I am going. Good-bye!” 

He turned away from her with the words. He would 
have gone. But in that instant Frances spoke—in the 
language that comes from the heart and speaks to the 
heart alone. 

“I am not free,” she said, “and you can never make 
me so. I am yours—as you are mine—for ever and 
ever. Nothing can ever alter that, because—God made 
it so.” 

Then, as he stood motionless, she went close to him, 
twining her arm in his, drawing him to her. 


376 


Tetherstones 


“Ah, don’t you understand?” she said. “I love you— 
I have always loved you—I shall love you till I die.” 

And then he yielded. He turned with a low, passion¬ 
ate sound that was almost of pain, and held her to him, 
bowing his head against her, beaten at last. 

“You are sure?” he said, and she felt the sob he 
stifled. “Frances, you are sure? Before God—this is 
for your own sake—not for mine?” 

She held him to her, so that the throbbing of her 
heart was against his own. “But you and I are one,” 
she said. “God made us so.” 


The church-clock struck the hour again, and they 
looked at one another with the dismay of lovers for 
whom time flies on wings. Down the hill at the farm 
they heard Roger’s voice uplifted in cheery admonition. 
The cows were being driven back to pasture for the 
night, and Maggie’s song came lilting through the 
gloaming. 

“Shall we go back to Tetherstones?” Arthur said. 

And Frances nodded silently. 

They left the place of sacrifice hand in hand. 


THE END 


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